


light of my life

by orphan_account



Series: tell me your story [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Come Swallowing, Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, Hongjoong-centric, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Public Blow Jobs, Riding, Sad Ending, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, lapslock, mayhaps i am projecting, or - Freeform, sad and horny: the fanfic, the one where they don’t talk about their feelings and just fucks it out of their system, which i guess could count as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-10-28 06:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17782676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: hongjoong takes good care of his group.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first of all i have not written a full length fic in literal years so i am so so sorry if this is terrible. and my vocabulary is the worst ahdkfkg i dont even know how to tag this anymore :((
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO!! IMPORTANT NOTE!! i am tagging this as dubcon because of the lack of enthusiastic consent. if i forget to tag anything pls do let me know!!!! also idk how often i am going to be updating this !! aaand this is not beta read !! nor proofread lmao

sometimes, when the night is young and the day has been good, hongjoong lets himself believe that he’s a good leader. he gets along well with the rest of the boys and he knows what they like and don’t like. everyone’s happy, everything’s in harmony - it’s _perfect_ , but sometimes it crosses his mind that what they’re doing (what _he’s_ doing) isn’t what one would consider normal. he tries very hard to reassure himself that that’s _fine_ , everything’s fine as long as no one find out. he’s not doing all this for _them_ , he’s doing all this for his boys’ happiness.

 

but most of the time, he thinks he might just be taking advantage of them. the boys are young - _they’re_ all young, but he’s the _leader_ , and he’s supposed to guide the kids and all that. they’re supposed to listen to him.

 

 _i’m taking advantage of my status_ , he thinks, as yunho hikes up his leg and fucks into him even deeper. he feels the boy’s breath get closer to his neck before a tongue swipes at the skin there, and then there’s lips and teeth and a hickey he should scold the boy about.

 

“stop thinking so much,” yunho whispers. “just focus on me, hyung,” and he snaps his hips in a way that makes hongjoong gasp out loud and clutch tighter on the sheets, his head thrown back beautifully. yunho presses a kiss on the hickey and leans back, snacking a hand between them to drag his fingertips on bare skin.

 

hongjoong shivers under his touch, but his eyes are still unfocused, head still somewhere else. he vaguely registers pressure around his neck, but he’s too busy thinking about how different the younger boy was when they first met, how different everyone was. they all used to be a little shy and awkward, still a little careful around each other. the dorm used to be so quiet -

 

“ _hyung_ ,” yunho whines, tightening his hold around the other’s neck. hongjoong looks at him with glassy eyes, watches how his face melts from annoyance to concern and his hands falter. his expression turns soft. “we can stop if you want.”

 

it still is, now. the dorm, it’s still quiet. everyone else are out doing their own thing. hongjoong used to ask a lot whenever they were leaving. _where are you guys going? who’s going with you?_ it took him a long while to _get_ _his shit together and stop worrying so damn much, hyung, holy shit_. it was wooyoung who said that to him. he was running late to something that time, or _something_ ; hongjoong wasn’t sure. he never got an answer to his question, just a door slammed at his face. it never fails to make him feel a pang of hurt in his chest whenever he remembers that. wooyoung never said sorry, but he slipped inside hongjoong’s room that night to cuddle with him when he thought he was asleep. hongjoong was wide awake, and he watched the boy slip back out as silently as he entered. when the door softly clicked shut, hongjoong turned to lie on his back and cried. it feels like such a stupid thing to cry about, though. he felt stupid, and maybe he still does, to this day.

 

he reaches out to grab at the collar of yunho’s shirt and tugs him close until they’re face to face. “ _harder_ ,” he breathes, and smashes their lips together. he feels yunho resist, so he kisses him with more hunger and moves his hands to tangle in the boy’s hair. there seems to be an ongoing battle in yunho’s mind but then something sparks in his eyes and he sheds his hesitancy, giving hongjoong what he asked for.

 

yunho pulls out, flips hongjoong on his stomach effortlessly, like he weighs nothing - _like he’s nothing_ \- and, putting both hands on his waist, pulls him flush against yunho’s hips in time with every thrust.

 

hongjoong finds himself unable to think about anything else other than how yunho’s cock slams right at his prostate. his brain has been reduced to mush.

 

yunho releases his waist and he feels a hand grab a handful of his hair to tilt his head back _hard_ , and another slips between his legs to fist at his cock. hongjoong’s eyes close tightly and he moans, long and unashamedly, fucking himself back against the younger boy.

 

“hyung,” yunho groans, mouth finding its place on the unmarked side of hongjoong’s neck. “ _hyung_ , so good - always so good for us,” and he punctuates that with a hard thrust, making hongjoong see stars for a moment. “you work so hard.”

 

“y- yunho - please - _ah!”_ yunho sucks harshly at hongjoong’s skin, roughly fucking into him. the bed creaks beneath them, sheets wrinkled as hongjoong holds onto them for dear life. yunho abruptly pulls away, releasing hongjoong and running his hands down the older boy’s back until they find their place back on his waist.

 

everything still feels too much, even as yunho slows down his pace into something so _torturous_. as much as hongjoong likes getting fucked raw and hard, there’s always something so deeply satisfying about being fucked like this. he doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to see yunho watching him with such intensity in his eyes that it makes hongjoong shrink bashfully into himself. still, he does.

 

he shivers and sighs at every drag of yunho’s cock inside him. watching the younger boy watch _him_ makes the sensation increase tenfold - yunho drinks in the sight of his hyung like he’s a rare specimen. hongjoong whimpers under his gaze, feeling self-conscious.

 

“please don’t hide,” yunho pleads, voice barely audible, when he sees hongjoong trying to make himself appear small. “you’re beautiful. i want - i want - ” he hesitates. “is it okay if you lie down on your back again?”

 

hongjoong doesn’t know why the boy is asking when he’s always been flipped over and manhandled without warning. sometimes he’d wake up in the morning and there’s already a queue for his mouth. he never really had it in him to say no. _it’s the only way i can make their day a little better._

 

“okay.”

 

yunho pulls out slowly, making hongjoong whine at the emptiness. yunho cracks the barest of smiles.

 

when hongjoong is lying on his back, yunho doesn’t waste time and runs his hands wherever he could reach. “so beautiful,” he mutters, and brushes a thumb against one of hongjoong’s nipples, making him gasp and arch off the bed. yunho watches this and _moans_ , like he felt it with him.

 

“hyung, you’re so pretty,” he’s breathless when he says this, looking down at hongjoong like he’s not just pretty - like he’s the _prettiest_ , like he’s never seen anyone as pretty as him.

 

hongjoong whines and he turns to his head to the side to try to hide as much as he could. he closes his eyes and feels yunho pause his wandering hands. there’s a minute of silence before the bed shifts and he feels kisses trailing down from his chest to his hips. he knows where this is going - yunho’s gonna suck his cock, edge him until the sun sets, and let him come only when it rises.

 

he gasps when he feels yunho’s mouth on his cock, lapping at the slit and licking off the gathering wetness. yunho pulls off and mouths at the side of his cock, before going back to lick around the swollen head.

 

“ _yunho_ ,” hongjoong breathes, turning to look down at the younger boy, immediately regretting it when he sees the same soft expression on his face. yunho seems to sense this. he pulls away.

 

“i’m sorry,” he says, and hongjoong furrows his brows in confusion. “this is the only thing i can do for you.” it’s vague, it doesn’t have any real context and hongjoong’s left even more confused.

 

“wha- _ah_ ,” yunho swallows him down whole, sucks his dick like he needs it to live. hongjoong’s thighs quiver where they’re spread to accommodate yunho. “yunho, yunho, _yunho_ ,” he chants, one hand frantically reaching for yunho’s head as the younger boy speeds up and the other gripping onto the sheets like it’ll help him stop himself from fucking up into the very eager mouth. his self-control is wearing very thin, though.

 

as if reading his mind, yunho pulls off with a pop, quickly wrapping a hand around his hyung’s cock to replace his mouth. “you can fuck my face, hyung,” he then licks a stripe at the side of hongjoong’s cock, maintaining eye contact. “please fuck my face.”

 

hongjoong swallows, and in a quiet voice, he says, “if that’s what you want.”

 

yunho shakes his head. “this isn’t about me.” he pauses. “not anymore.”

 

 _then_ who _is this about?_ hongjoong wants to ask, feeling a bit of annoyance bubble up his chest, but he doesn’t speak. if yunho wants to get off by being face-fucked, then hongjoong will give him what he wants.

 

and so he gives.

 

yunho doesn’t gag or choke, of course he doesn’t, but hongjoong still minds to be careful with him. they don’t usually do things like this, but recently, the boys started to go a little soft on him. hongjoong isn’t fragile, they all know that - they’ve bent him over and in ways he never thought possible, tested his limits and proved he can take whatever they want to throw at him - but he noticed a sudden change in their demeanor. suddenly they’re more mindful. suddenly they’re kinder. suddenly it matters to them if he’s uncomfortable. it’s not unwelcome, it’s actually kind of nice, but...

 

but more often than not, hongjoong wishes they can just throw that whole _i care_ facade and use him like the toy he is.

 

hongjoong comes. it feels kind of mechanical at this point. he warns yunho when he feels it nearing, but the boy doesn’t let up and stares at him with, what, determination in his eyes? they shine with something indecipherable, and they close when hongjoong fucks his cum down yunho’s throat until he’s milked dry and oversensitive.

 

“okay, okay,” hongjoong says like he’s bracing himself for what goes next. yunho frowns as he gets up.

 

“okay?” yunho looks like he’s done. like… there’s nothing else to do. hongjoong panics.

 

“aren’t you gonna fuck me?”

 

yunho smiles like it’s nothing. “ah, i think i just wanna cuddle.”

 

 _cuddle?_ “i can… i can get you off,” hongjoong offers.

 

“it’s okay, hyung,” and yunho slumps beside him, pulling the covers over the both of them. yunho throws an arm around his stomach and holds him close. “just want cuddles.”

 

yunho loves fucking him when he just came, when he’s oversensitive. it makes him look even tinier, the boy explained, and

 

 _hyung is cute when he’s acting small._ yunho always liked to tower over hongjoong, always liked to remind him that he’s so _tinysmallcute_. but now…

 

ah. hongjoong knows. he must not be desirable anymore. 

 

and he’s boring, too. who wants to fuck someone who only knows to lie down and take what’s given to them?

 

“i can... ride you, if you want. if you- if you don’t want to move.” hongjoong whispers, feeling... _small_ , sounding small. he’s suddenly feeling shy. _how can this undesirable thing make such an offer?_

 

yunho seems to ponder the idea. “is that what you want?”

 

_why does it matter what i want?_

 

hongjoong nods his head as enthusiastically as he could. yunho stares at him like he’s trying to read him, and hongjoong feels his facade falter. it’s been crumbling this whole time, but he’s desperately trying to hold onto it. _please buy it, please -_

 

yunho places a hand on the side of hongjoong’s face. “hyung,” his voice and expression was soft. he looks… _genuine_. hongjoong feels infinitely smaller being held under that very gaze and, without warning, tears well in his eyes and fall.

 

“oh no, hyung, please don’t cry.” yunho tries to wipe his tears away but only succeeds in wetting the dry parts of his cheeks. “i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry.” hongjoong belatedly registers the quiver in the boy’s voice.

 

yunho hugs hongjoong close to his chest, nuzzling his face at the top of his hyung’s head. “i’m sorry i can’t do more for you,” he says, voice muffled, “it was the only way i knew how.”

 

 _great_ , hongjoong thinks. not only was he undesirable, he also made yunho feel like he was lacking. he wasn’t.

 

hongjoong doesn’t think he deserves it, but he cries into yunho’s chest like he does.

 

he was a breath away from falling asleep from exhaustion when he faintly hears yunho speak:

 

“i’m sorry i can’t get you out of your head.”

 

-

 

they’re talking about him. hongjoong can’t hear them from where he’s sitting on the couch, but he can tell from how their voices are hushed that they are. he sees yunho glance at him in way the boy must have thought was subtle - it wasn’t - and seonghwa leans to yunho’s ear to whisper something as he walks away.

 

as much as hongjoong tries to ignore them, he’s been noticing that the boys are having more and more discreet conversations recently. he doesn’t have any solid evidence that they’re actually talking about him so he brushes off his suspicions. he’s trying to, at least. he doesn’t want to think of his band members as backstabbing, conspiring against him to… to… to do _something_.

 

they probably want him out of the group.

 

he hates how they all get extra cuddly with him after their secret conversations. san throws himself on hongjoong’s lap and curls up around him. wooyoung fits himself on hongjoong’s side, knees pulled up to his chest to make room for san. seonghwa sits on the other side and throws an arm over hongjoong’s shoulders.

 

hongjoong feels like shit.

 

“you’re tense,” he hears seonghwa say. when he turns to him, seonghwa was looking at him with the same expression yunho was wearing from their last time together. “stressed?”

 

hongjoong offers a weak smile and just nods. he hopes that was enough to get the older boy off his back.

 

“maybe a massage will help?”

 

ah. right.

 

seonghwa’s always been the caring hyung - not that hongjoong wasn’t caring, but he wasn’t at the same level as his hyung - and more often than not, the younger members would always find themselves being babied to hell by the oldest whenever things get a little too much to handle. seonghwa would always be there for them - he was kind and his words were soft and his hands can melt off all tension in their shoulders.

 

but when seonghwa himself needs help, he turns to hongjoong. it would always start off like that. the older boy would be antsy all day. tense, stiff to the point he could snap and crumble. he’d guise it with concern and ask hongjoong if _he’s_ okay. he’d ask if hongjoong wants a massage, and when they’re alone in the room, seonghwa opens him up and takes out his problems on him.

 

 _“is this okay?”_ seonghwa used to ask, on their first few times when they were still getting a feel of each other. there was no set boundaries yet, so they find things out together with their hands interlocked. _together._

 

he stops asking after a while. it’s fine. hongjoong lets him take what he wants. sometimes he gets absorbed in so much emotion that he just can’t wait, and hongjoong is fine with that. he’s gotten used to getting roughed up to the point of scratches, wounds and bruises.

 

it’s fine.

 

except it’s not. things like that… they should talk about it. they should just be talking, isn’t that the _right_ thing to do? the _sane_ thing to do? and yet all hongjoong can offer them is his body. use him all they want, but does that ever solve anything?

 

“joong?”

 

hongjoong shuts his eyes tightly for a second before he looks at seonghwa with a smile that looks more like a grimace than anything. he replies with: “yeah. i’d like a massage.”

 

seonghwa is gentle this time. his touches are featherlight where pressure wasn’t needed, and he only presses on the areas where tension had accumulated. hongjoong lets himself relax a little. it reminds him of their first time; _the_ first time.

 

they were a lot more cautious back then, yet they were also so reckless. they had no idea what they were doing, and hongjoong hurt where he wasn’t supposed to had they done things properly. but he manned through it and seonghwa tried to make it as comfortable for him as he could. it was good. it was great.

 

it hurts. it _hurts_.

 

“lots of tension in your shoulders,” seonghwa says, voice somewhere above him. “something been bothering you?”

 

“n-no. nothing,” hongjoong replies. he forces himself to relax for seonghwa.

 

seonghwa gives him a massage - a _normal_ one, far different from their regular one. hongjoong doesn’t ask, so seonghwa doesn’t answer. everything’s fine.

 

when the weight of the world slips off hongjoong’s shoulders as seonghwa’s fingers whisk them away, hongjoong lets himself fully relax. he lets himself melt into the bed until he can’t tell where he ends and the bed starts.

 

he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for suicidal thoughts and self harm

being the leader of a group means taking charge and looking after the members, but that didn’t mean he should neglect himself for the others.

 

that was what their manager had said, years ago when the principal rang them up to let them know that hongjoong’s desk had started to accumulate dust from all the days he was absent. his bed at the dorm had started to see him less and less. the snacks bought specifically for him in their cupboards remained untouched.

 

looking back on it now, he supposes all of that turns out to be completely pointless. but he was a dreamer. he and seonghwa were in their final year of highschool, with their dongsaengs still about halfway through theirs. hongjoong wanted to work hard for them, so that seonghwa wouldn’t have to study day and night for college entrance exams, so that the rest of the boys wouldn’t even have to  _ think _ about school anymore. they wouldn’t need it if they were successful enough, but life wasn’t so good for hongjoong.

 

all of his songs were rejected. he remembers presenting a dozen songs - more than enough for a debut album, with just the right amount of choices to look through - and having the producers click their tongue and shake their head at him. every song was taken apart - they nitpick the lyrics and criticize the beats. they look back up at him and question him with  _ this is what you want to debut with? _ he shake his head dejectedly and start looking through college applications with seonghwa. they spend most of their nights studying together, quizzing each other. hongjoong’s memory was fuzzy, but if it serves him well, he thinks everything started during those nights.

 

no, it never really started with seonghwa. it never started with someone else. it started with hongjoong.

 

“hyung, i’m tired,” he had said.

 

“i’m tired too, joong, but if we don’t study well, we’re gonna fail,” seonghwa had replied, not even looking up from the book he was holding.

 

he remembers trying not to cry - “no, hyung.  _ i’m tired. _ ” - and then he had let everything out. seonghwa had held him in his arms, and hongjoong looked up at him and asked if he could kiss him. it was all blurry after that and, to be honest, hongjoong didn’t think that memory was accurate. he forgets things a little too often. sometimes his mind makes up its own memories.

 

they had fucked on the bottom bunk - hongjoong’s - with their fingers linked together, quick, labored breaths, and hushed praises.

 

“you’re doing so well, joong,” seonghwa had whispered, breath against hongjoong’s ear. “working so hard for us. so _ good - ah!” _ he snapped his hips harshly and hongjoong moved to meet him halfway, letting out his own pleasured gasp.

 

“hyung,” hongjoong had panted, feeling himself nearing his release. “ _ hyung _ .”

 

seonghwa pulled away from him at some point. hongjoong was trembling underneath him, eyes screwed shut as he felt an overload of pleasure.

 

“joongie, look at me,” seonghwa had said, cupping hongjoong’s cheek and brushing a thumb against his bottom lip. when hongjoong opened his eyes to look, he immediately shied away as he saw the tender look his hyung was giving him. but seonghwa didn’t let him turn away, pulling him back to face him.

 

hongjoong had no choice but to stare back and melt - seonghwa was moving his hips in a way that was mind-blowing, cock relentlessly fucking right into that bundle of nerves inside hongjoong, yet he maintained the loving expression on his face. it was overwhelmingly intimate. he didn’t dare say it, but he felt loved and appreciated. it was as if seonghwa would react strongly if he found out what hongjoong does to himself behind closed doors.

 

hongjoong threw his head back and let out a drawn out moan between parted lips, coming between them, completely untouched. seonghwa had pulled out and stroked himself to completion, adding to hongjoong’s mess.

 

it was a lot more lighthearted back then. seonghwa had reached down to squeeze hongjoong’s ass and expressed his desire to eat him out. hongjoong had let out a breathless laugh and smacked him on the chest.

 

_ “maybe not now, hyung.” _

 

_ “oh, so there’s a next time?” _

 

they got the best sleep they’ve had in a while that night, and then they aced the exams the next day.

 

so it became their thing - they fuck and excel at whatever needs to be done the day after.

 

it was good, it was great. and suddenly, the world started to revolve around it.

 

the results of the exams had turned out to exceed their expectations, and to celebrate, they took the boys out for dinner. when they were finally alone in the comfort of their shared room, they shed their clothes and whispered praises against each other’s skin.

 

sometimes when hongjoong was swamped by his ever-present melancholy mood, he lets himself miss those days - miss the gentle, unsure seonghwa. but those days come with a lot of painful rejections. he would miss sleep for several days to put out just a single song, only for it to be waved away. and then they got songwriters. they let him and mingi write their own verses, and while it was a huge relief, it still gave him a fair share of pain and stress.

 

he had expressed his desire to continue writing their songs, but their manager shrugged him off.

 

_ they’re experienced writers _ , he had said,  _ besides, that’s a lot of work taken off from you. just go back to school. sleep more. _

 

hongjoong sleeps even less.

 

they give him an idea of what the songs were going to be like so he could get started on writing his part, and when they finally read what he came up with, they send him off to  _ revise it just a little bit. this line doesn’t seem to tie with the rest. _ so he did, only to get rejected again. the cycle continues. one verse gets rewritten some twenty times before it gets binned completely. then they make him write a completely different verse, and the cycle continues.

 

_ hongjoong, i’m sorry, but this is worse than before _ . maybe try rewriting something five hundred fucking times and see if you still have energy to rewrite it some more.

 

“i know, i’m sorry,” he says, without being so.

 

sometimes he wishes they just tell him outright that he doesn’t need to write his part. he wishes they just tell him to his face that they didn’t want his help, didn’t need it. it would save everyone the trouble.

 

instead, they leave him in the dark and summon him whenever. he’d coming running every time, thinking things would be different. when they push him back inside his cave after a particularly harsh feedback, hongjoong spends the day hitting every inch of skin he could reach. his wrists and thighs long to be pierced with a blade, but being an idol means being perfect. he was not allowed to curl in the comfort of warmth that only a deep cut and the bubbling of blood could offer. he was not allowed to scar. but was it not what he deserved?

 

of all things he did not have - looks, talent, money - at least he had the decency to feel bad. they were just doing their job. it just so happens that hongjoong had not yet written his breakthrough verse. they just want what was the best for him; for everyone. hongjoong understands. he wants that too, and the best had to be perfect.

 

for the boys, hongjoong would do everything for them to get perfect, even if it means getting rejected and hitting himself over it.

 

so why would he be allowed to get what he wants when he did nothing to deserve it? it sparks turmoil inside his head - would it be punishment if he took blade to the skin, or would it be a reward? ah, but if it were to be a punishment, wouldn’t it be better if someone else inflicts it upon him? then again, who would bother? kim hongjoong was a nobody. who would want to touch him? sully their hands with the filth of his blood? no one. so kim hongjoong should do it himself.

 

when he thinks about these things too deeply, when things get especially bad, he thinks he’d be better off dead - but does he deserve  _ that _ ? it would be too easy for him. he craves it - death - but never made a move to get it. too easy, but too hard. he hits himself when he thinks about it, closes his hands into tight fists and brings them down to the flesh of his thighs. then he watches the slow bloom of redpurpleblue. like a flower - delicate, soft - except it hurts when touched.  _ exactly how he wants it to be. _

 

he doesn’t deserve death, and besides, he only ever deserves to suffer, so he lives. he thanks his cowardice for not being able to cut his arm vertically, jump off a high building’s rooftop, or down the bottle of bleach from the lower cupboards of their kitchen. he can’t die, and he doesn’t deserve it, so he lives.

 

in more quiet mornings when the sun had only started rising and his stomach was warm with coffee, he thinks about wanting to see his dreams come true, thinks about the group performing in front of a sold out concert. he lives.

 

but his mere existence could not solve everything. he still had unapproved verses to rewrite and producers, songwriters,  _ people _ he needs to impress. it gets too much, but at least he had a hyung he could count on. a hyung that he could complain to almost every night.

 

but one night was not like the others.

 

“i know you want to write your own song, and i think you’re talented, but,” seonghwa didn’t take his side that time. “maybe you should just try to entertain them this time.”

 

hongjoong remembers being angry. he was so angry and so  _ tired _ . seonghwa was supposed to be his  _ friend.  _ “well,” he spits, “what the fuck do you think have i been doing?”

 

“joong,” seonghwa glares, eyes sharp. “i want to sing my own lines too. but not everyone here gets the privilege of writing their own verses.”

 

hongjoong narrows his eyes at him. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. “you know what, i don’t care. i’m tired.”

 

“i’m tired too, joong,” seonghwa says. “i’m tired of your incessant complaining when the rest of us here aren’t even allowed to do what you do.”

 

hongjoong feels his temples throb - a telltale sign of an upcoming headache. he shuts his eyes and lets out another sigh before he yells: “then take it up to them! take it to them and crawl back to me when they say no.”

 

“maybe i will,” he hears seonghwa get up from his seat. he hears the venom in his voice too. “and maybe they’ll say yes. maybe i can come up with something that actually reaches their standards.”

 

hongjoong snaps up at that. he opens his mouth to say something, but seonghwa had already slammed the door. the older boy was gone for the entire day, only returning when everyone had long gone to sleep.

 

hongjoong had just started to sleep deeply when he feels his bed shift under a weight, covers being pulled to let in a visitor. and then there was a head buried at the crook of his neck and an arm slipped over his waist.

 

“they said no,” seonghwa whispers, “they said no, joong.”

 

“hyung?”

 

“joong.” he hears the rejection in his hyung’s voice. his heart breaks. he didn’t mean to hurt his hyung. he feels ungrateful. rude. seonghwa was only trying to help.

 

“i’m sorry,” hongjoong says. he gently pulls seonghwa’s arm off of him and turns so that they were facing each other.

 

hongjoong carefully watches his hyung, and ever so gently, he takes his hyung’s face in his hands and presses a soft kiss against his lips.

 

“joong,” seonghwa shakily calls.

 

“hyung,” hongjoong parrots. “hyung, i’m sorry. here, let me show you.” he pushes seonghwa until he’s on his back, looking up in wide-eyed innocence. his hyung had always been beautiful, and it truly was a huge shame that he gets hurt like this. no one deserves to be hurt like this. especially… especially not by hongjoong. he should know better. what was he thinking, telling his hyung off like that? he knows what it was like to be rejected and ignored, yet he let his hyung go through it.

 

he gets on top of seonghwa. “let me show you.”

 

“no, joongie - ”

 

“shhh,” and he rubs his ass against seonghwa, eliciting a choked gasp and reveling in it. hands fly up to grasp at his waist, shakily trying to stop him. he smiles down at his hyung. “just let me.”

 

quickly, he reaches over to their bedside drawer and procures a bottle of lube. he drops it to the pillow, right beside seonghwa’s head, and begins to shrug off his clothes. he reaches down to hook his fingers on the waistband of seonghwa’s pants before he pauses to look at his hyung. seonghwa nods.

 

once it was off, hongjoong reaches for the bottle of lube. it clicks open - loudly, in the silence of their room - and he coats his fingers generously before closing it, letting it drop back on the bed. his free hand finds one of seonghwa’s, interlacing their fingers together, while his lubed up fingers slide between his legs.

 

seonghwa pants beneath him, watches him open himself up. hongjoong feels his hyung tighten his hold around his hand.

 

“is hyung getting impatient?” this makes seonghwa’s breath hitch, and when hongjoong looks down, he catches his hyung’s cock weep a fat drop of precum. hongjoong blinks. “hyung?” he tries.

 

“ _ joong _ , just - stop,” seonghwa huffs.

 

“stop?”

 

seonghwa averts his gaze. “h- hyung is impatient. please, joong. hyung wants…”

 

“what does hyung want?” hongjoong asks, but he was already coating seonghwa’s cock with lube. “does hyung want to use joongie’s hole? is that it? hyung wants to use his joongie?”

 

“ _ yes _ , joong, please - ”

 

hongjoong lets out an uncharacteristic giggle. he feels oddly elated. “hyung is so cute.” and then he sinks down seonghwa’s cock without warning, effectively punching the breath out of both of their lungs.

 

“j- joong feels so good,” seonghwa pants through gritted teeth, releasing hongjoong’s hand so he could put both of his on the boy’s waist. he thrusts up as he pushes hongjoong down on his cock. hongjoong’s toes curl and his back arches as he lets out a surprised moan.

 

hongjoong bounces on seonghwa’s lap, the bed creaking beneath them, but neither mind as they start to chase wildly after their release. hongjoong clenches around his hyung’s cock, earning him a bruising grip on the waist, and seonghwa’s thrusts falter.

 

“joong, off,” seonghwa orders, but he doesn’t stop fucking up desperately into hongjoong’s tight heat. “i’m gonna come.”

 

“cute,” hongjoong replies, reaching a hand between his legs to wrap around his own leaking cock. “come, then.”

 

“joong, i’m - i’m serious, i can’t - ”

 

“can’t?” hongjoong blinks innocently down at him. he watches his hyung glance down at the hand languidly stroking his cock. “can’t hold it? that’s okay. hyung can come inside.”

 

seonghwa chokes and his hips stutter and buck up. “ _ joong _ .”

 

hongjoong’s dick twitches in his hand. “does hyung want to come inside joong? i think hyung wants to stuff joong full of his come.”

 

he watches seonghwa’s face flash with helplessness and want, feeling a flicker of satisfaction and triumph over getting his hyung like that, but it was over as soon as it started. seonghwa’s hips start to stutter and then he was pulling hongjoong flush against him, cock pressing right at his prostrate, coming right  _ there _ .

 

hongjoong gasps as he feels the throb of his hyung’s cock, spilling come inside him, and he speeds up his hand around his own cock. seonghwa reaches at him and cups the sensitive head of hongjoong’s cock, circling it in his palm the way he knows makes hongjoong cry out. and he does - hongjoong throws his head back and comes with a choked sob, coming all over their hands.

 

they forget why they were fucking in the first place.

 

so, really, everything started with hongjoong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there wasn’t supposed to be any smut at all in this chapter but i wanted to be consistent in my word count haha. anyway if yall wanna scream at me pls do on [my tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com)  
> im thinking of making a twitter as well. i already have one but im a closeted hard stan so uhh.
> 
> also uhh ive read the comments on the previous chapter !! yalls r appreciated ahsjdj im just so ??? iDK im a weirdo who dont know how to reply hAha
> 
> edit: yall bitches better [vote for HALA HALA](http://m.mwave.me/en/vote/mcountdown/vote) or im not updatinf this shit forever lMAO were currently on the 8th spot and while monsta x has like the rest of the worlds vote, can we at least fucking try lmao literally i vote with all off my sns shits pls do the same ahdkfkgkkdks


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for non-graphic self-harm and blood
> 
> this chapter was brought to you by:
> 
> rihanna - close to you  
> panic! at the disco - always  
> niki - around  
> munimuni - tahanan  
> rebecca sugar - love like you  
> eraserheads - huwag kang matakot  
> eraserheads - with a smile  
> jonghyun - before our spring

of all his times with the members, hongjoong could say that the ones with mingi were the most personal, frustrating, and heart-wrenching. granted, they have their own best friends and people they run to, but they understand each other in a degree that may even transcend those relationships. they share similarities and heartaches that their peers do not.

 

while yunho boasts of having been mingi’s four year-long best friend, his comforts were limited by mere sympathetic half hugs and soft  _ maybe’s _ that do not have a complete understanding of the whole situation.

 

on the other hand, seonghwa has a fair share of knowledge about the internal works of stressed rappers, strict songwriters and perfectionist producers. hongjoong told him a lot - he always runs to his hyung, after all - but seonghwa only ever has the power of his own views and opinions. hongjoong appreciates that a great lot; he needs objectivity more than anything, but seonghwa can get very biased from time to time. and still, by the end of the day, he does not know what it was truly like.

 

but mingi...

 

mingi’s heart was pure. he was this tall, lanky boy of twenty-one who has too much love in his heart, and wasn’t afraid to wear it on his sleeve.

 

what he was afraid of, however, were people. people and their thoughts.

 

“again, mingi,” they tell him.

 

hongjoong watches the younger boy shift from one foot to the other as he re-records his part for the umpteenth time. he stops looking at anyone in the eye and stares at his shoes instead. he glances up for a split second to helplessly blink at hongjoong.

 

“i think he did well,” hongjoong says, but was met with silence. he hears the scribbling of pen on paper and an aggressive typing on a smartphone keyboard. “i - i think he did amazing,” he follows up, and hates how he sounds so unsure. he wants to be strong for mingi, show him the support he needs, but he’s just as scared. his leg bounces - one, two, three - before he smooths his sweaty palms over his thighs. he tries to make eye contact, communicate his apology but mingi stops looking at him after that. he doesn’t look up even as they wrap up for the day.

 

hongjoong feels the weight of his failures settle heavily on his shoulders. he slumps in the van on the way home. mingi sits with yunho up front. hongjoong watches their shoulders bump and tries not to tune in to their dejected whispering.

 

back at the dorms, hongjoong wordlessly crawls onto seonghwa’s lap to kiss his own worries away.

 

it starts like how it always does - slow, gentle, testing - but it wasn’t what hongjoong needs right now. he whines impatiently and takes seonghwa’s bottom lip between his teeth, pulling, before dipping down to slip his tongue to meet seonghwa’s.

 

it was messy and needy and hongjoong’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, all his troubles already forgotten. it was exactly what he needs.

 

or, or maybe just a little more -

 

and hongjoong grinds against seonghwa’s muscular thigh, pulling away from their kiss to let out a pleased gasp. he rolls his hips again, desperately, needily, head falling to rest on seonghwa’s shoulder.

 

“feels so good, hyung,” he pants, curling his fingers around a handful of his hyung’s shirt, eyes falling shut as he lets himself get lost in the moment.

 

“you look good,” seonghwa says, somehow breathless without even doing anything. he reaches down to cup hongjoong through his sweatpants. hongjoong’s hips stutter at the added pressure, before he starts to grind against it frantically.

 

“ _ hyung _ ,” he whimpers.

 

then a knock on the door interrupts them. hongjoong jumps off of seonghwa’s lap and the older scrambles to get off the bed.

 

mingi timidly enters the room, eyeing his hyungs in mild curiosity. hongjoong thinks they probably look ridiculous - randomly standing in the middle of the room like this, hair messy and lips swollen. they look exactly like what they were doing.

 

“mingi,” greets seonghwa, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. hongjoong stuffs his into the pockets of his hoodie, subtly trying to adjust it. “did you, ah, need anything?”

 

the curiosity was gone and suddenly mingi was back staring at his shoes again. “wanted to talk to hongjoong-hyung,” he mumbles.

 

and all of hongjoong’s fears and worries come crashing back onto him. but he doesn’t blame mingi. mingi just needs him, and wherever he was needed, he goes.

 

“i’ll leave for a moment, then,” and seonghwa leaves, the door swinging behind him but not fully closing.

 

hongjoong sits at the bed and invites mingi to take a seat next to him. mingi walks to the desk opposite the bunk and pulls out the chair instead. hongjoong tries not to let his smile falter. he tries not to think about how he failed mingi, how he failed as a leader. his hands ball up where they were placed on his lap.

 

“i - um. about today,” mingi starts, fiddling with the hem of his sweater, head still hung low. “‘m sorry for messing up. again.”

 

“i really did think you did amazing,” hongjoong says. “come here, please?”

 

mingi eyes the spot next to hongjoong, before he gets up and makes his way to occupy it. despite being six hundred-something feet tall, his insecurity makes him look tiny. hongjoong wonders if he could fit the boy in his pocket. he’d take him somewhere nice, where everyone appreciates his hard work, where no one could hurt him. he doesn’t know if there was such a place, but for mingi -  _ for the boys _ \- he’d try to find it. if there wasn’t, well, he could always make one for them.

 

“i - i don’t think i did okay at all,” mingi says. his sweater was already wrinkled with his fiddling. “they - they - ” he stops and sighs. hongjoong takes one of his hands and gives it a squeeze that he hopes was reassuring. he watches the corners of mingi’s frown twitch into a small smile.

 

“if,” hongjoong pauses, darting out a tongue to wet his lips. he sees mingi dazedly follow the motion. he makes nothing of it. “if they don’t see how great you are, that’s on them.”

 

“they’re experienced producers, hyung. they know the difference between subpar and amazing.”

 

“but that doesn’t mean they can’t be wrong. that doesn’t mean you did terribly.”

 

mingi still looks unconvinced. hongjoong knows what that was like. he has a hard time trying to get that in his head too.

 

“how do you do it, hyung?”

 

“do what?”

 

“like - ” mingi makes a vague hand gesture. “like you got yourself together. even if… even if they…”

 

“i don’t, mingi,” hongjoong brushes a thumb on the back of mingi’s hand. he flashes him a soft smile.

 

“but hyung,” mingi furrows his brows, “you’re amazing.”

 

he hates that. he hates getting these kind of remarks. it leaves him no room for complaints. it invalidates his struggles. he can’t say he was unsure of himself without being told he’ll do fine because he was supposed to be  _ amazing _ .

 

but he pushes his thoughts down because this wasn’t just anyone - this was mingi,  _ their _ mingi. the boy was just looking up at him. he doesn’t want mingi to lose the shine in his eyes. mingi did nothing wrong. he just has a bad case of misplaced hero worship.

 

it was fairly easy to impress mingi and somehow very difficult to disappoint him.

 

on times when hongjoong fucks up - which was very often - mingi immediately jumps to his aid. while it feels good to know that someone has his back, it makes hongjoong sink further into the dark trench of his self-hatred. he doesn’t deserve it.

 

there was always an alibi for everything, and hongjoong  _ hates _ it. he wishes mingi would just drop this hero fuckery and stop lying to himself to make hongjoong feel better. he wishes people would just stop being nice to him for the sake of not hurting his feelings, because it hurts him even  _ more _ .

 

in those times, he craves the disapproving looks he gets in the studio. at least they were forward and honest. but then again, didn’t he say he only deserves to suffer?

 

he has been defended time and time again by someone he was supposed to be looking over and guiding. and when he does the same, mingi scowls at him from over his shoulder to tell him off for being condescending. when he tries to express sympathy - because he  _ understands _ , god fucking damn it - he gets told that he  _ doesn’t _ , because mingi chose to stuff him in a suffocating glass box so he could be  _ untouchable _ .

 

mingi was the reward he doesn’t deserve, and the punishment he so longs for. it hurts all the same.

 

“i’m just as lost as you are,” hongjoong says, “i wish i had a secret to tell you, but i don’t.”

 

mingi lets go of his hand and plops down on the bed. hongjoong follows.

 

“it gets tiring, doesn’t it, hyung?” mingi asks, staring up at the bottom of seonghwa’s bunk. “i have to do everything again tomorrow. they’re barely even my words anymore.”

 

hongjoong nods sullenly. it was the same thing with him too. they rewrote lines after lines until it felt more like being dictated what to write than coming up with their own stuff. hongjoong pats the bed for mingi’s hand and interlaces their fingers again when he finds it.

 

“don’t get tired yet, though,” hongjoong says. he feels the bed shift next to him. mingi rearranges himself on the bed, lying on his side to face hongjoong.

 

“i won’t,” mingi replies, voice now a few volumes shy of being a whisper. he pulls their joined hands up to his face until his breath fans over their knuckles. “hyung?”

 

it was hongjoong’s turn to lie on his side this time. “mingi.”

 

“what do you do when things get too hard?”

 

_ i let seonghwa fuck me into the very bed we’re lying on. _

 

hongjoong hums, pretending to be in deep thought. he feels the sheets shift before one of mingi’s legs slot between his. he watches mingi bring their hands closer to his face, turning them until the back of hongjoong’s hand touches mingi’s lips.

 

mingi grazes his lips against hongjoong’s hand, pulling it down just a little bit downwards, so he could press gentle kisses on the knuckles. then he unlaces their fingers, using his to open hongjoong’s hand before they slide down to circle around the slim wrist. he presses a kiss on the palm, and then on the inner part of hongjoong’s wrist. he only snaps out of his trance when hongjoong laughs at the ticklish feeling.

 

“ah, sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly. “it’s just. your hands are pretty.”

 

“pretty?” hongjoong snorts, snatching his hand back. “you always tease me about having small hands!”

 

he expected mingi to jump on the joke, but the boy looks flustered instead. “i, uh, i really do think they’re pretty.”

 

it was always mingi’s thing to just look stupidly cute out of nowhere. hongjoong wants to pinch his cheeks.

 

so he does.

 

“cute,” hongjoong says, and revels in the way mingi looks even more flustered. he laughs. “go to sleep.”

 

“you - um. hyung, can you - ” mingi hesitates. “can i sleep here?”

 

“sure. just don’t kick me. or hog the blanket.” and hongjoong turns to lie on his other side, closing his eyes.

 

he never really sleeps this early, but the bed feels more comfortable now that it was holding the two of them. it was always lonely sleeping alone, especially after he and seonghwa had started their thing. and, oh - mingi slips an arm on hongjoong’s waist, chest pressing against hongjoong’s back. he feels warm, content. comfortable.

 

hongjoong easily melts into the other boy, shuffling back so they were even closer. he likes the warmth of mingi’s body heat. he likes hugs, affection. he likes being appreciated. surprisingly, he likes gentle hand kisses too. who would’ve known.

 

in the silence of the night, mingi nuzzles his face at the top of hongjoong’s head to whisper:

 

“sometimes, i just want to disappear.”

 

“i want that too.” and then hongjoong adds, “sometimes.”

 

“sometimes, i think i’m not good enough.” the arm around hongjoong’s waist tightens. a shaky breath was drawn. “hyung, i want to be good enough.”

 

“you already are,” hongjoong says. he genuinely thinks so.

 

he can make a long list of everything that makes mingi so fucking annoying, but at the end of the day, that was still his mingi, and he likes mingi the way he was.

 

if hongjoong had someone to look up to, he would cling to that person too. he’d put them up on a pedestal too. and for mingi, even if he knows he doesn’t have what it takes, he would pretend to be worth the kid’s adoration. if it helps mingi get through the day, then hongjoong would be happy to put up an act for him.

 

for mingi, he would pretend that he wasn’t already falling apart.

 

the top of hongjoong’s head was wet with tears. he hears the held-back sobs and the tremor in mingi’s chest. he presses back further into mingi and holds his hand.

 

the next thing mingi says was so quiet that hongjoong nearly misses it:

 

“i hate myself sometimes, hyung.”

 

and hongjoong knows the boy means  _ always _ . he knows.

 

he takes mingi’s hand and brings it to his lips, mimicking the kisses he just received. mingi’s hand tenses at first, before it relaxes, and then there was a rumbling at his chest. mingi was laughing.

 

“it really does tickles,” he mumbles.

 

mingi pushes himself up with his free arm, positioning his elbow behind hongjoong’s head, and rests his chin on his palm. he watches his hyung trail kisses down to his arm.

 

“there’s lots of things to like about mingi,” hongjoong mutters, lips still on skin. he smiles at the resulting shiver. “lots of people like mingi, too.”

 

“does hyung like mingi?”

 

“hyung likes mingi a lot,” and another kiss was pressed on skin. lips brush down to a different spot on the same arm. “hyung thinks mingi is very talented.” kiss. downwards. “mingi is an amazing rapper,” kiss, “an amazing dancer.” he brushes his thumb over mingi’s elbow and presses a quick kiss there, too.

 

hongjoong trails kisses upwards this time, from the elbow and back up to the wrist. he brushes his lips against knuckles, and then on each long finger.

 

he holds mingi’s fingers together, and, looking over at mingi, he gives them one last kiss. mingi watches, face unreadable. hongjoong interprets it as disbelief.

 

he wants to push his message into mingi’s head, erase all doubts he has of himself. but hongjoong knows that while it was easy to listen, it was hard to  _ believe _ . he doesn’t want to tell mingi that he was wrong to hate himself either - he doesn’t want to invalidate what the kid was feeling.

 

so instead, he tells him, “let’s just go to sleep and work harder tomorrow.”

 

he falls asleep easily that night. in the morning, he finds himself still tangled in mingi’s long limbs. they wake up almost at the same time, sleepily getting up to get ready for the day. seonghwa’s bed was cold and untouched.

 

“thanks, hyung,” mingi says, eyes still closed. he pads over to where hongjoong was standing, and kisses him on the forehead. by the time hongjoong processes what just happened, mingi was already out the door.

 

at breakfast, mingi saves his hyung a seat next to him. hongjoong takes it and wonders where seonghwa was. he doesn’t get much time to wonder, though, because before he knew it, they were in the van to the studio again.

 

hongjoong stares at the back of seonghwa’s head, watching him converse with yeosang up at front. seonghwa’s head tilt back slightly as he laughs. hongjoong thinks about how pretty yeosang was. funny too, apparently. must be nice being the whole package.

 

a hand slips over hongjoong’s and squeezes. when he looks over at mingi, the boy flashes him a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease. hongjoong returns it, and doesn’t look back at the front seats to stare out the window with mingi instead.

 

he takes mingi out on their free time, lets the kid hold his hand and cling onto him. he lends his shoulder when mingi needs a long, good cry, then cheers the boy up by eating someplace nice, his treat. they get ice cream, sometimes coffee. sometimes they just stay inside their personal studios and talk.

 

in the meantime, seonghwa chooses every possible time to suddenly disappear. his bed continues to be untouched for several days. hongjoong tries to ask where he sleeps but was always met with pointed stares and cold silence. he doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he still hits himself for it.

 

it gets difficult. hongjoong wants his alone time, but mingi keeps squeezing himself into the picture.

 

“i’m sorry,” mingi apologizes, face falling so quickly from the bright smile he was just wearing. hongjoong sees that the boy was carrying a plastic bag of junk food on both hands. he sighs.

 

“no, it’s okay. come in,” and he pushes the door open for mingi to enter. they huddle in front of hongjoong’s monitor together to eat while they watch pirated movies.

 

meanwhile, seonghwa continues to avoid him, and yeosang continues to be obliviously pretty.

 

hongjoong hates the world, and the world hates him right back. he was so tired and so…  _ lonely _ . talking to mingi feels like talking to a wall - a wall that almost unhealthily adores him and clings like a parasite. but he doesn’t want to think of mingi that way. mingi was definitely not like that.

 

he likes mingi, he really does, but he wants to be alone. he was also very lonely. and horny. both of those seonghwa can fix, but the older boy seems to get farther and farther away.

 

it was wintertime.

 

the lock on the bathroom door clicks and hongjoong runs a shard of glass across skin.

 

at the end of the same week, seonghwa barges into their shared room for the first time in forever, and throws bloodied sweatpants at the foot of the bed.

 

“what’s this?” he demands, but hongjoong merely stares at the article of clothing. “hongjoong, i swear - ”

 

and then he was pulling at hongjoong’s pants despite his protests. he pushes hongjoong down by the neck and continues to tug, until the offending clothing was bunched up around hongjoong’s knees.

 

long stripes of dark red greet him. four on each thigh, of varying length, bubbling with blood in just the slightest movement. they were placed over old scars.

 

all the fight hongjoong has in his body leaves, and he lies boneless on the bed, staring at nothing. he doesn’t try not to cry - it would be futile to - and instead lets his tears steadily fall down to his cheeks. he feels ashamed.

 

he feels ashamed, but he doesn’t know why. he wanted to be caught. he could’ve washed the sweatpants the night he did it, but he left it so someone could find it. and now that someone has, it doesn’t feel like the help he was expecting. it doesn’t feel like help at all.

 

seonghwa slowly crouches to the floor and lets his face drop to his hands. hongjoong listens to him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for self-harm and mentions of blood
> 
> +++
> 
> hellooooo kiddos. we have surpassed 1000 hits and (nearly) 100 kudos!!!!! i never expected this ahsjfkgk i love u all thank u for reading and leaving comments when u can ahskdk i appreciate every single one of u!!!!
> 
> this is exactly 864 words shorter than the last chap so sorryyyybhjkajdkjjfjs

sometimes, hongjoong lets himself be happy. he tries, because seonghwa says so, and because he  doesn’t want to burden his boys with his inconsiderate sadness anymore. it was hard, because it was the only emotion he has ever known. he could not, for the life of him, remember a time where he did not wish to cease from existing. it was just a part of him, growing up. it was who he was, no matter how much the boys try to convince him otherwise.

 

so he tries, for seonghwa. for the kids.

 

think of the things that make you happy, seonghwa says. hongjoong thinks about dancing, writing a song, rapping. he thinks back on the time he was accepted as a trainee - he couldn’t stop smiling then, even as he started crying on the phone. he had to be told to calm down, and he started laughing. then he cried again until his mother held him. it was the first time he truly made her proud.

 

hongjoong thinks of his 3 AM coffee breaks. under the bright light of his computer screen, he sits in complete silence as he basks in the peaceful atmosphere that only that specific hour could bring. coffee seems to taste even better during that hour, and it sits especially well in his stomach, warming and waking him up. but then seonghwa keeps barging into his studio to scold him. he gets dragged into their room by the ear.

 

he thinks of all the unsaved changes to the songs he was writing that disappeared come morning.

 

he thinks about the times when san would enter his room to crawl under the covers next to him, situating shiber between them and nuzzling closer to him. when the sun rises, san wakes him up with a kiss and demands he give one to shiber as well. he does. during the same mornings, yunho would appear on the doorway, hair mussed up and voice deep from sleep, rubbing his eyes and complaining about waking up alone. he walks over to the two and plops down on the bed, crushing them with his body. it was uncomfortable, but they would sleep up until the next hour, when seonghwa would yell at them for still not getting up.

 

sometimes, san would call him a  _ good boy _ . in bed, when san towers over him, bangs messy and hiding the evil glint in his eyes, the boy would run his hand across hongjoong’s chest and close it tightly around his throat. he would roll his hips in that same, sinfully  _ slow _ pace, and silently, he would say: “ _ good boy _ ”. it sounds like pure filth, and in  _ english _ , a language hongjoong could barely understand, but it smoothly rolls down the tongue and, like a soft lick to the palate, shakes hongjoong to the core.

 

he likes the way san would close his fingers around hongjoong’s cock, tightening right as he was just about to come. he likes the way san would rake his fingernails down hongjoong’s back, running downward until he pulls his hand away momentarily to smack at hongjoong’s ass, and gives it a painful squeeze.

 

hongjoong, with all his uncertainties and doubts, know for sure that he loves that kind of pain. it drizzles and sizzles and  _ pops _ , leaving his skin bright red and throbbing, marking him with unique prints of angry, overlapping scratches and blooming stems of dahlia bruises. seonghwa, upon seeing them, would only shake his head at him and tell him not to let san do it again.

 

other times, san busts down the bathroom door and takes his trembling hands. shoulder to shoulder, they would wash hongjoong’s mess together.

 

“please don’t do this again,” san pleads, voice so quiet it was almost drowned out by running water.

 

hongjoong doesn’t do promises. he says: “okay.”

 

he thinks about the thoughtful stare san gives him, before the boy leans in to press a featherlight kiss on his cheek, whispering, “ _good_ _boy_.”

 

in the evenings when they were all idle, wooyoung would sometimes pull him to his and yeosang’s room for a movie. hongjoong thinks about yeosang carelessly plopping down next to him.

 

he thinks of all the unsaved changes that he lost. he thinks about how bad of a person he really was. he thinks about the times he let the boys leave marks on his skin. he thinks about the times he does it himself. he thinks about the nights spent on his phone with his mother, when she jokes about how ridiculous he looks with his hair.

 

he thinks about the time san first found him in his most vulnerable state. he remembers the furrowed brows, the confusion, the judgment - san wasn’t understanding.

 

“just do it vertically, if you really want to do it,” he had said, flippantly, and hongjoong could only stare at him.

 

but san wasn’t done. he continued, “i never understood why people do this. if you really want to kill yourself, then you’d do it properly.” it still rings loudly inside hongjoong’s head.

 

“this is all just a show for attention.”

 

but was it really so bad if it were? hongjoong feels ashamed. he feels ashamed but he doesn’t know why, but he does. deep inside, behind the walls he built around himself, he knows. he wants to die, but he doesn’t have the courage to do it, so he wills himself to believe that he doesn’t try to kill himself because he doesn’t deserve it. he was afraid of the burn of chemicals so he doesn’t touch the bleach. he was afraid he would wake up in pain so he doesn’t drink all of their pills. behind all his twisted logic and beliefs, he was just plain scared.

 

was it really so bad though?

 

why was it so hard to think of things that make him happy when his life was never truly sad? his parents love him, the boys look up to him, and they were never really treated harshly by the company. he never experienced traumatizing family problems, never failed a class despite his absences, never had to go through deep financial problems. he was decent-looking and had some talent; his friends and family all expected him to be an idol at some point because of this. no one ever really looked at him and thought about how disgusting he looked. no one ever looked at him and thought about how hard life must be for him. instead, it was the opposite.

 

how could someone with so much privileges still be so sad?

 

“people can feel sadness for no reason,” seonghwa tells him once, in the ocean of his never ending wisdom and sympathy. “that’s just how we are.”

 

hongjoong knows that the older meant well, that it was meant to be reassuring. but all that his brain chooses to wrap itself around was the lack of reasons behind his tears.

 

as stupid as it sounds, his problem was the lack of problems. a privileged man’s sole enemy, apart from himself. and perhaps, the real problem here was him.

 

but hongjoong could never try to erase himself from the equation.

 

it was all fear on top of fear on top of fear. with every slice of the shard of glass, he thinks of all his faults as a person. he thinks about all the people he blamed, the fingers he pointed. he runs the shard across fingertips, and watches dazedly as blood rushes to greet him. it feels warm, and hongjoong associates warmth with comfort. he thinks of gentle caresses and loving hugs. he absentmindedly applies the most pressure on his thumb, pointed end dragging swiftly across skin like nothing, and red blooms like a miniscule explosion. it rolls down to his wrist where the rest of the party was.

 

san never apologizes, but he would start appearing when hongjoong was halfway through his thigh. san helps him clean up, and tosses the shard in the bin.

 

another time, the boy spent the entire day rummaging through everyone’s things. he went from room to room, tossing clothes onto a pile on the floor, pulling drawers out to go through their contents. hongjoong comes home that night to find that the box that hides his stash of empty cushion makeup was completely empty. san had left it on hongjoong’s bedside table, filled with various kinds of scar removal creams and ointments. a sticky note on the lid of the box read:  _ i don’t know which of these work so i just got them all :) _

 

hongjoong clutches the note and cries a little. he mourns the loss of the cushion compacts he had accumulated since his teenage years. some of them he got from his mother, some were gifts.

 

since then, hongjoong starts to use his fists instead. he uses his fists with anger - he thinks of san and his stupid note. he thinks of coming home to a clean bedroom, the box sitting mockingly on his bedside table. he returns it to san after he cried. he got up, took the box, and left it on the doorway of san’s and yunho’s bedroom. and then, for the first time, he uses his fists.

 

_ you did this _ , he thinks,  _ this is what you wanted _ .

 

there’s a wash of shame that follows afterward. he doesn’t want to blame other people. he doesn’t  _ have _ anyone to blame. but he doesn’t want to place it on himself either.

 

didn’t he say he only ever deserves to suffer?

 

san was just a  _ kid _ . what does he know? responsibility weights down heavily on hongjoong’s shoulders.

 

“we’re just a year apart, hyung,” san tells him helplessly. “and - and we’re more than just a group. we’re  _ family _ , hyung. you can count on us, if you just trust us enough. you can trust us. you can trust  _ me _ .”

 

_ but you hurt me _ , hongjoong thinks. but he pushes it out of his mind. no one hurt him. he does that to himself.

 

“you can tell me anything. if - if you’re not comfortable with me,” he sees a flash of hurt in the boy’s eyes, “you can talk to someone else. just  _ please _ talk to someone. we will listen.”

 

he hates that in the process of hurting himself, he unintentionally hurt san too.

 

so he tries. for san. for the boys.

 

san starts to treat him carefully. he stops slapping and pushing his hyung around, stops closing his hand around the throat he so loves to hold. after a while, san stops touching him completely.

 

hongjoong has never felt so ugly in his life. so utterly  _ ugly  _ and messed up in the head. attention-seeking.  _ dramatic. _

 

“you’re none of those,” san tells him firmly. “hyung, you’re a kind, beautiful person.  _ i love you _ .”

 

there it was.

 

overwhelming emotions flood hongjoong’s heart. he feels warm and content in the boy’s hold, but he wants more. he  _ needs _ more. san seems to know this. he pushes his hyung down, and carefully, ever so gently, climbs on top of him.

 

that was another first time with san. hongjoong watches the boy, eyes glazed, following the slow, sensual movements. san sinks down on him.

 

he only,  _ truly _ starts to feel better then. they do it more often. he ignores the lingering stare seonghwa throws at him. he doesn’t care - he got the attention he was craving for.

 

but sometimes _ ,  _ san says no. san tells him he wasn’t in the right mind to do it. hongjoong stomps back to the bathroom like an upset child and brings his fists down on himself.

 

the days after that, san slips his arms around hongjoong and hugs him from behind.

 

“i know what you did.”

 

_ why didn’t you stop me, then? _

 

“i knew you wouldn’t listen to me. i knew you would hate me. i know you hate me now.”

 

he does, and he hates it. all his life, all he ever asked for was someone to know him like they could read his mind. time and time again, he opens his heart like a book that everyone could read. no one cares.  _ no one cares _ .

 

it feels so suffocating. he doesn’t know what he wants now that he has it. so he pushes san away, because it was easier than to address his own feelings. when asked, he tells everyone he doesn’t know what was wrong with him. he does. he knows.

 

he wants san to give up on him. he wants to stay a pathetic piece of shit who hurts himself so people would feel bad for him, so people would  _ care _ . he pushes and prods and the explosion that san turned out to be was so  _ mesmerizing _ . it feels exactly like the pain he deserves.

 

san was red in the face and the corners of his eyes welled up with tears.

 

“i don’t understand, hyung,” he cries, the quiver in his voice amplified by the volume of his shout. “i did everything that you asked, everything that you wanted - i comforted you, i held your hand, i threw out all of the sharp  _ shit _ that you have - ” he throws his hand up and breathes deep. “i  _ fucked _ you when i didn’t want to - because you couldn’t even - couldn’t even  _ think _ properly. i fucked you because i didn’t want you to get all up in your - your fucking  _ head _ . i fucked you because you didn’t want to  _ talk _ , because you didn’t want to think. you get mad when i leave you alone, you get mad when i  _ wouldn’t _ . you don’t want me touching you, you don’t want me giving you space.  _ i don’t know what you want from me _ .”

 

“you don’t have to do anything for me,” hongjoong replies simply.

 

san’s eyes harden. “you’d still get mad at me.”

 

_ why does it matter? _

 

the explosion was mesmerizing, but it was exhausting. looking up at the firework san had started, hongjoong only ever feels empty. hollow. it was as if his soul had ascended and left his body, as if he were only an empty shell. his heart feels heavy, but he wasn’t feeling anything. he doesn’t feel like anything.

 

talking was always so wearying.

 

“hyung, what do you really want?”

 

_ this is all a show for attention. _

 

“i don’t know.”

 

seonghwa tells him to let himself be happy, but no one ever tells him to be honest, especially with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

hongjoong knows he looks pathetic right now - crouching on the doorway, drenched from head to toe. his teeth were clattering and his body was shaking like a leaf. he feels as bad as he looks.

 

over him, jongho purses his lips and holds out a hand. hongjoong quietly takes it, a bloom of heat spreading across his cheeks. jongho easily pulls him up to his feet and, with an assisting arm on the small of his back, jongho guides him back inside the dorms. the smell of wet earth and the soft patter of rain grows faint as the door closes behind them.

 

yunho seemingly materializes out of nowhere with a towel that he secures over their hyung’s shaking form. “jesus,” he breathes, concerned eyes raking over hongjoong’s sickly pale skin, over the blooming bruises and trails of scratches. hongjoong self-consciously attempts to cover his limbs.

 

together, the younger boys guide hongjoong into the bathroom. they’ve seen him naked before - countless times already, in different situations - but hongjoong feels his face flush from their attentive gazes as he was stripped bare. he hangs his head low and refuses to look at them. he doesn’t look like a model hyung, a leader. he doesn’t even look like an idol anymore.

 

pale skin bloom into a pretty, fragile pink when met with warm water.

 

jongho has always prided in his show of strength, but his touches were soft and light this time, while somehow still firm and solid. protective, dependable. his fingers massage shampoo into hongjoong’s scalp. yunho scrubs the dirt and grime off of hongjoong’s limbs, carefully minding the areas with bruises and scratches.

 

hongjoong keeps his head low. he reaches over to hook a finger on the collar of yunho’s shirt, tugging shyly, communicating a wordless request. yunho takes off his clothes, discarding them in a messy pile behind him. slowly, he circles his fingers around hongjoong’s delicate, purple wrist, and steps into the shower with him. jongho undresses and follows, moving to stand behind hongjoong. he presses his lips against the curve of a soft shoulder, hands coming up to rest on a tiny waist.

 

there were many times in his life where hongjoong felt disgust, but what truly was the icing on the cake was when he had taken their maknae. jongho was just a  _ kid _ \- he wasn’t even out of high school yet. hell, he was barely even  _ legal _ . hongjoong feels his skin crawl. he remembers flashes of curious gazes and knowing inquiries, warm hands on a thigh, lingering touches on the small of his back, and glowing eyes in the darkness, behind a partially closed door. but hongjoong just sat back and let it all happen.

 

he still thinks about it at night, when the ghost of jongho’s fingertips haunt him. what had made him shiver and fall apart once now makes him itch and curl into himself.

 

jongho’s always been incredibly perceptive. things like this, things like their  _ arrangement _ , were something they could never hide from him. he was so perceptive that it never really made sense to hide it in the first place, because he would already know everything before they even start doing it.

 

flashback to hongjoong’s and seonghwa’s first time - the day after, jongho seemed to pay attention to them more than usual. he asked questions that were seemingly innocent but underlyingly knowing. there was a glint in his eyes that resided next to curiosity. when hongjoong walked into the kitchen, jongho had offered him a seat and watched him take it. the corner of his lips twitched upwards the tiniest bit at hongjoong’s barely hidden wince.

 

jongho seems to enjoy doing that a lot - watching. he was always somewhere in the room, always idle, quiet, and observant. he watches the way san looks smug when hongjoong shows up in scarves or turtlenecks;  the way seonghwa’s eyes darken in jealousy; the way yunho drapes himself on hongjoong’s back; the way wooyoung starts acting brattier and more disobedient; the way mingi starts acting more  _ pliant _ . jongho quietly watches them all and pieces everything together. he does nothing about it but watch.

 

he does nothing, up until he sees yeosang warm up immensely to their leader. by then, hongjoong could see the cogs slow to a full stop inside jongho’s head.

 

jongho starts getting handsy. it was all harmless at first. the boy was very affectionate, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to see him cuddle up to his hyungs. but then his touches start becoming more... _ adventurous _ . his hand starts to trail up a thigh, too close to where it shouldn’t be. he seems to have developed a knack to watching hongjoong squirm under his touch. when the boy was feeling bold, he tries to make hongjoong do more than just squirm.

 

jongho likes to touch, and he likes to ask, to pry, all the while running his warm, strong hands over trembling limbs. he likes to trap his hyung against all possible surfaces, give him fleeting, teasing touches and mocking questions.

 

“is hyung cold?” he would ask, before his warmwarm _ warm _ hands would wander down hongjoong’s chest, over hardened nipples. he would marvel at the instantaneous reaction - back arched, right into his touch - and do it again. and again.  _ and again. _

 

“ _ jongho _ ,” hongjoong would choke out, finding his last bit of self-control and pushing the younger boy away from him.

 

he doesn’t ever need to look back to know that the boy was burning holes at him, watching as he walks away in unsteady legs.

 

and then jongho goes from teasing, to straight up  _ naughty _ . he would palm hongjoong in the van on the way home when everyone else was asleep, slip his hand inside hongjoong’s back pocket when no one was looking, attach his lips at hongjoong’s sensitive _ sensitive _ neck when he has his hyung trapped somewhere.

 

hongjoong doesn’t want to  _ want _ him, but he does, and it continues to eat him alive. he never says no to the younger boy’s advances, never pushes him away again. instead, hongjoong stands there and takes it, takes everything. at some point, he starts to grab at the boy’s clothes and pull him even closer, make the boy crowd into him and do whatever it was that he wanted to do.

 

jongho likes to touch. his hands would always wander everywhere, slip under articles of clothing to reach for skin, caress,  _ tease _ . hongjoong pulls him impossibly closer, until he burns under their combined body heat, until he feels the unmistakable press of jongho’s hard _ ,  _ clothed cock against his thigh.

 

jongho likes to taste. his mouth would always find hongjoong’s neck first, kissing and nipping at skin, kissing up to the sensitive spot under his hyung’s jawline. it was a foolproof way of getting under hongjoong’s skin, and once the older boy was panting against his shoulder, jongho would pull hongjoong’s shirt up to his chin, leaning down to lick at the nipples he likes to tease so much.

 

“ _ jongho _ ,” hongjoong hates it,  _ hates _ it - how much he wants all of this. it never really occurred to him how utterly  _ easy _ he was, up until jongho strode up, pushed him against the wall, and ate him alive. he feels  _ filthy _ \- all of the sins he committed come rushing back. he only ever realizes how messed up he was when he already had them all.

 

when jongho fits himself into hongjoong’s list of nightly visitors, it starts to feel like it was the only thing hongjoong was good for.

 

maybe it was.

 

jongho likes to take photos. he would bend hongjoong over, one hand holding a camera, the other on heated skin. sometimes, he prefers to film instead. hongjoong would shy away from the lens regardless. he saw what jongho has of him so far, and he doesn’t really get what the appeal was. he looks disgusting. his body was all weird angles. his stomach would always look a little bloated, his legs were short, his face would make funny expressions, and his dick wasn’t anything special.

 

he looks especially terrible right now, angry red and fragile purple painting a pale sickly canvas of  _ ugly _ . there were blood and skin under his fingernails. his entire body hurts. the scratches on his limbs burn on contact with soap and water. his bruises throbbed painfully.

 

but he likes the pain.

 

“i’m sorry,” there goes yunho again, apologizing for something hongjoong was responsible for, for something completely out of his control.

 

“i did this,” hongjoong tells him.

 

“stop that,” and yunho captures hongjoong’s lips into a chaste kiss. they pull away and rest their foreheads against each other’s, eyes closed. “san told me.”

 

damn roommates. “told you what?” hongjoong asks, playing stupid.

 

“that it’s...difficult.”

 

behind him, jongho rinses the shampoo off his head and starts putting on conditioner.

 

“what is?”

 

“trying to cheer you up.”

 

hongjoong feels anger bubble in his chest. the anger quickly fizzles out into defeat, melting the center of his heart until it was empty, and he slumps. instead, he feels bad. he feels bad for the boys, because they have to put up with him. he doesn’t want them to feel like they have a hand in his frequently fluctuating moods, like they have to do something about it.

 

hongjoong’s problems were his own and his own to fix.

 

“you don’t have to do anything for me,” he mumbles.

 

“but we want to.”

 

yunho had asked him out earlier today, when the sky was still clear and the pavement was clean of puddles. he said yes. they went out like two good friends, two boys from the same idol group. it was  _ nothing _ . it was fine, everything was great. they went out to get breakfast in this new western diner around the corner that had unlimited refills for brewed coffee and, from what they had heard, served the best pancakes. the place was nice, but hongjoong was craving for something less  _ american _ , maybe. like those fluffier pancakes that trends a lot in social media. yunho had agreed, but for the sake of trying things out, they entered the diner. later, they got a ride to the cinema to catch a movie because, why not?

 

there were dark clouds loitering in the sky by the time the movie ended. it was just the faintest drizzle then, but it slowly built up into a steady rain. the two of them had been in the middle of walking. yunho quickly tugged off his jacket and held it over their heads, arm resting heavily over hongjoong’s shoulders. they took off, laughing at their misfortune, before a taxi happened to pass by.

 

when they returned to the dorm, san looked up at them with a teasing smirk and asked, “how was your date?”

 

hongjoong remembers thinking,  _ what date? _ when he voiced it out, yunho’s thousand watt grin turned into a sheepish smile. the boy had the gall to blush when he answered, “you’ve just been so down lately. i didn’t really cheer you up last time, so i wanted to make it up to you today.”

 

and, well, hongjoong didn’t mean to get mad. there was nothing to get mad about. he was supposed to be touched and express his gratitude. yunho just cares - there was nothing wrong with that, and the boy took it upon himself to make his day a little better. still, hongjoong felt annoyance creep up to him. why the fuck does he care? what the fuck was it with these boys and their sudden romancing? what, sex got boring? not into fucking someone who cries during sex? not into fucking someone who got all this self-inflicted shit on his body?

 

yunho’s face fell. “i was - i was just.” and then he just stopped. san was there, because of  _ course _ he was, of  _ course _ it had to be him that was there, and he immediately jumped to aid his roommate.

 

“hyung, he was just being nice,” oh fuck right  _ off _ . hongjoong feels his blood boil, hot molten fury throbbing in his veins. “i don’t know what goes on in your head but you really need to start appreciating other people’s efforts to make you happy.”

 

“i don’t  _ need _ your efforts,” hongjoong spat. he knew he was being completely unreasonable but he didn’t know how to stop. “maybe if you just leave me alone - ”

 

“this is hard for us too!” san cut him off, standing in front of a disheartened yunho, as if shielding the taller boy from their hyung. hongjoong felt a crack in his empty heart. “we know you’re sad, hyung, we know you’re hurting. but that doesn’t excuse you from lashing out on us. you can’t just hurt him - or any of us - like this and expect us to let you off because  _ you’re not okay _ , especially not when we’re just trying to help you out. i’m sorry, hyung, but you’re just being flat out toxic.”

 

but hongjoong already knew that.

 

“just leave me alone,” he said.  _ i don’t want to acknowledge this problem yet. this conversation is over. _

 

“hyung,” yunho meekly called. “i’m sorry but, san is right.” it was okay, hongjoong knew. “you’re the one who’s making yourself miserable.”

 

and, in a small, pleading voice: “if you don’t want us to help, just  _ please _ let yourself be happy.”

 

hongjoong stared blankly at yunho - yunho and his begging, teary puppy eyes, quivering bottom lip and all - before he stepped back slowly, and slipped out the front door, out to the pouring rain.

 

jongho finally speaks up, “what did you do out there?”  _ how did you hurt yourself so badly in the span of just a few hours? _

 

“i went to the park.”

 

the park was a whole bus ride away from the dorms, but the two boys don’t say anything. hongjoong, as soon as the door closed shut behind him, started running aimlessly until he burned out his lungs, until his feet started to ache from overuse and improper footwear. above him, the sky continued to weep in heavy, fat droplets of rain that fell harshly to the ground. he stopped at a playground -  _ cliche _ \- and sat himself on one of the swings to catch his breath -  _ more cliche. _

 

and then he cried, because he was so confused, but he  _ wasn’t _ confused - it was a losing battle, all against himself. he ran because he wanted some space to think, but he also wanted them to go after him and help him get out of his mind. he knew what he wanted all this time, but everything he wished for himself went against each other. in the end, he could only allow himself one and not the other. he wants both, but he beats himself down until he could not chose, because he believes he doesn’t deserve to. in the end, all he ever wanted was to feel like he deserves something,  _ anything _ but the pain he keeps bringing onto himself. he could list a million reasons why he deserves that pain - but he could never try make himself better. he couldn’t give himself a cure, so he resorts to giving himself punishments instead. it doesn’t make sense to him either, but at this point, when it was the only thing in life that he has done so consistently that it has become  _ routine _ , it starts to feel like the right thing. there wasn’t anything else that he could and was willing to do, so this thing must be the  _ right _ thing.

 

behind his blurry sight, his fingernails scraped against damp skin. slowly, at first, just a bit of strength test, gauge how much it would hurt, how much it  _ should _ .

 

hongjoong shuts his eyes, feeling a hand comb through his hair, sweeping it from the back of his neck to the side where a soft kiss was later placed. “i don’t want you guys to feel like you have to do all of these things,” he says.

 

“we want to,” yunho repeats, and then his breath was fanning over hongjoong’s face as he leans closer. he cups hongjoong’s face and presses his lips against the older boy’s eyelids. when he pulls away, hongjoong slips his hand on the back of the boy’s neck and crashes their lips together, kissing him hard.

 

a string of saliva thinly connects their lips when they pause to breathe, foreheads pressed together.

 

hongjoong makes it up to him the only way he knows how - “what else do you want to do to me?”

 

there was a moment of silence. yunho was hesitating, yet again. he bites his lip in thought, eyes downcast as he battles -  _ yet again _ \- a decision that he will eventually give into because he knows that no matter what he does, they’ll get the same ending anyway. a waste of time.

 

when he looks up, eyes wide in question, he asks, “what does hyung want?”  _ again. _

 

hyung doesn’t know what he wants. or at least, he knows, but he was in a never ending loop of denial, on top of making so many choices for himself that he winds up choosing nothing, because that was what he thinks he deserves. he thinks about that, sometimes. the boys tell him he deserves so much more, but he believes he doesn’t. who was he supposed to listen to - the boys who could see past hongjoong’s eyes but adores blindly, or himself who he hates and relentlessly criticizes but know the best? but how could he say what he wants when he denies even himself of the truth?

 

it gets tiring, sometimes. everything gets tiring - everyone gets tired. he wasn’t anyone special, and other people have worse problems than him. he hates thinking like this, but when has he ever thought differently? he tries to push into his head that this mindset was wrong - had it been the other boys who think that way, he would do everything in his power to change that. but it wasn’t them that was experiencing these things. it was him, and it makes it so much harder.

 

hongjoong has always been so weird. his feelings bubble up randomly and weirdly. he hates when the boys try to help him. they try to sympathize, they try to give out advice, but what do they know? if he could just stop buying pocket mirrors to break and cut himself with, he would. if he could just stop picking up the shards, he would. he doesn’t need to hear them tell him repeatedly that  _ this won’t solve anything _ because there was  _ nothing to solve, leave me alone _ . nothing was wrong with him. he was perfectly fine.

 

“you’re not,” jongho would tell him as he makes his hyung _please, stop_ by force. that was what hongjoong likes best about jongho - while the boy was afraid of using his strength against his vulnerable, weak, fragile _,_ _stupid fucking_ hyung, he would use it anyway because it was the only way he knew to stop him.

 

and hongjoong especially likes the sex that would follow afterward. jongho would pin his wrists over his head, fear ever present in his eyes, but he wouldn’t stop.

 

hongjoong likes the pain. he likes the way his wrists would burn under the squeeze of jongho’s fingers, the way the cuts on his thighs stretch and press together painfully as he gets fucked out of his mind, how he feels guilty immediately afterwards for making their youngest go through his fucked up shit with him, how his heart aches at the knowledge that he was only ever good at dragging people down with him, how jongho would run away immediately after everything - because he was a  _ freak. _ jongho would always up and dress himself as fast as he could - hands trembling as he tug his pants back on.

 

“just want you,” hongjoong says, pulling yunho back for another kiss, but the boy turns his head away and resists, gaze falling to the tiles. hongjoong doesn’t try to chase him. he only lifts his head up to look through hongjoong, reaching behind his hyung to retrieve a shampoo bottle. he does his own hair.

 

hongjoong lets his hand rest on the boy’s shoulder. he stares blankly at his dirty, uneven fingernails. he should trim them soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought i posted this already ahskkds i was so scared bc there wasnt any comments like usual i thought everyone hated it i got so scared ajdksk this is a straight mess im sorhth shdksksksk
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was brought to you by
> 
> jorja smith - carry me home (interlude)  
> rebecca sugar - love like you  
> rihanna - close to you  
> jus2 - long black
> 
> ...and coffee.
> 
>  
> 
> [youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlo0Ahz15sxnzuDLkiOcWViLVZ0p33WZX)

wooyoung was a boy, but he wasn’t  _ just _ a boy. he was a boy of average height and nice posture, with nice hands, neatly trimmed fingernails, and moderately rough palms. he was pretty with his clear, unblemished skin, his expressive eyes, his contagious smile; and his voice was  _ heavenly _ \- his laugh flows like a melody, and when he sings, his voice filters through the air like a love spell. he carries himself in a way that felt… _ airy. _ light. there was a certain kind of innocence in him that you wouldn’t expect from someone who crushes the stage with his sharp gaze and fluid body. he could be meek and quiet, but he could also be loud and outgoing. he was the kind of person you would feel comfortable hanging out with regardless of what kind of person you are. he was well-liked and appreciated everywhere he goes. he radiates warmth and comfort, like a long hug or a cup of coffee. one could even liken him to the sun.

 

for all intents and purposes, wooyoung was a boy - a very special boy.

 

so it hurts to see him look at himself in the mirror and hate what he sees.

 

it was understandable - beautiful people can feel this way sometimes, or maybe even more often. that was  _ okay, _ because even the most attractive person in the world can feel an ounce of insecurity. that was just how humans work. it doesn’t make it hurt less, though.

 

wooyoung sits on a swivel chair in the bathroom, elbows resting on the sink counter as he dabs on the most high coverage BB cream the world has ever seen. it was a little light on him, a shade at best, in a cool undertone compared to his warm. he takes a lip balm next, running it over freshly exfoliated lips, coating it with the barest sheen and a bit of red tint. he smacks his lips - one, two - and wipes at the edges with his ring and pinky finger. he tilts his head to the side, cheekbones high with the dewy finish of his makeup, searching his face for any need of immediate touch ups, before he turns to check the other side. he lifts his hand to pat the corners of his nose with his ring finger, blending the creases. he smacks his lips one last time, running a hand through his hair. he looks very... _ delicate, _ soft, in his oversized black and white striped sweater with a wide neck that slides down on his right shoulder. his jeans were light washed, slim fit, ripped at the knees and folded at the ankles, secured by a long white belt that sways between his thighs. his bare feet were flat on the floor, heels pink and toenails painted a pretty pastel blue. on his right, the small bathroom window lets in a few rays of golden afternoon sunlight, forming a natural halo. he looks  _ angelic. _ breathtaking. hongjoong has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

 

“i look terrible,” wooyoung says defeatedly.

 

“no, you look great,” hongjoong replies, sitting on the bottom bed. he has been watching wooyoung redo his makeup for the past hour, listening to the constant  _ i look so bad, hyung _ comments and trying to reassure him that he looks as perfect as he always do, because hongjoong genuinely thinks so.

 

he watches wooyoung drag the thirty-eighth makeup wipe of the day across half of his face.

 

hongjoong used to think this was stupid. wooyoung has always been handsome and charismatic even back then, before he was even a trainee. he was just someone you could easily be drawn to, and the thought of him not liking himself strikes hongjoong as strange. he used to think of the boy as ungrateful.

 

but he starts to understand.

 

things weren’t always rocky. like right now, wooyoung’s insecurity was mellow - a swaying boat under the afternoon heat, just the barest movements as the ocean danced underneath it. the tide gets rough other times. hongjoong tries to keep him calm during them, tries to be as involved and as visible whenever he could, and row him back to the shore with the rest of the boys.

 

wooyoung was a born performer - it was his pride and joy. when things don’t go as he envisions it, it  _ crushes _ him. when it does, he forgoes rest. he forgoes food. at every step he misses, he skips one meal. he takes the hours he wastes and reduces that night’s sleeping hours. sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. sometimes, he doesn’t mess up, but he gives himself the same punishments either way.

 

his jawline needs to be sharp, his stomach needs to be flat, his arms and thighs need to be more defined. he pushes around the food on his plate and later scrapes its content down the bin, then he runs to the gym and works out like he was trying to kill himself.

 

hongjoong understands. he doesn’t want to think this way, because it was kind of  _ wrong, _ but he admires the kid for still being productive despite his state of mind. while hongjoong beats himself up for the things he did wrong, wooyoung makes up for his mistakes and inadequacy by actively trying to fix them.

 

“should i use the black or the brown eyeliner?” wooyoung asks, holding up two felt tip eyeliners of the same brand. he genuinely looks troubled by it. “black seems like i’m trying too hard. but brown might be too subtle.”

 

“i think,” hongjoong gets up, pushing himself off the bed with both his hands, “you should take a break from all that.” he walks over to the bathroom and takes both items from the boy’s hands, placing them on the sink counter with all the other makeup. “seonghwa-hyung would freak if he sees these.”

 

“who cares,” wooyoung grumbles. he spins in his chair until he was facing the mirror again. his face was completely bare now. hongjoong still thinks he looks pretty. it was kind of unfair, really.

 

hongjoong side-steps until he was standing behind wooyoung, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. he looks at their reflection and smiles. “you look good even without all of that.”

 

“i don’t feel good,” replies wooyoung with a pout. he tilts his head back until it hits hongjoong’s stomach, looking up.

 

hongjoong answers him with a smile, leaning down briefly to capture his lips in a chaste kiss, before spinning the chair so they could face each other. hongjoong situates himself on the boy’s lap, tangling one hand in his hair while the other slides down his chest. “hyung will make you feel good,” he promises, and closes the gap between them to kiss him properly. wooyoung parts his lips easily, kissing back good and slow, just a chill slide of lips against the other’s. it gets heated fast, but they stay on their current pace, pausing every now and then for quick deep breaths.

 

wooyoung’s hands find his hyung’s hips, giving them a squeeze before he pulls as he rolls his hips up. he lets out a harsh pant, then hongjoong attaches their lips together again, tongue slipping in to lick at the other, kiss growing messier and hungrier. hongjoong slides a hand down between his thighs to press the heel against his aching cock, whimpering against wooyoung’s mouth.

 

the waves were tame, and when wooyoung’s boat was steady, the ocean targets hongjoong’s instead. sharks circle around his boat, drawn to the strong smell of envy like spilt blood. the bottom of the ocean was pitch black, glowing eyes unblinkingly staring.

 

wooyoung was undeniably pretty, even without all the shit he piles on his face everyday. he piles on color correctors like he needs them - there was no discoloration to worry about, barely even a hint of blue under his eyes, and the redness that he wakes up with sometimes was so  _ pretty _ that he could get away with calling it blush.

 

hongjoong adores him so _so_ much, and he hates that the kid sometimes hates himself, but in a twisted way, he also likes it. he likes the way it makes wooyoung inherently more _human._ _real._ he likes that wooyoung confides in him too. he likes being wooyoung’s knight in shining armor - pretty, perfect little wooyoung’s _savior._ hongjoong likes feeling important. he likes feeling like he matters. he likes being needed, and where he was needed, he goes.

 

he likes being a perfect person’s toolbox.

 

wooyoung was pretty everywhere - even the sounds he make were pretty. he moans pitifully when hongjoong sucks a mark on his exposed shoulder, kissing it wetly before turning his attention to the jutting collarbones, and then downwards. wooyoung tangles his pretty fingers in hongjoong’s hair, back arching as a warm mouth closes around his nipple, followed by a circling of tongue. hongjoong watches wooyoung through his lashes, moving downwards some more, off of wooyoung’s lap and settling between perfect, strong thighs as he kisses a path down a trembling torso.

 

looking up at wooyoung was always such a treat. it was the perfect view. hongjoong wastes no time getting to the boy’s cock, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans, mouth watering in anticipation. he takes it in his mouth, sucking, licking, cheeks hollow as he bobs his head down to swallow more like he needs it to live. the hand in his hair pushes him down further, choking him momentarily, but he likes it, likes feeling desirable, especially when it was  _ wooyoung _ who desires him. pretty, sexy, charismatic, talented,  _ perfect _ wooyoung.

 

“hyung - i want - i want you,” wooyoung pants, tugging lightly at hongjoong’s hair to get his attention. and oh, does hongjoong like being wanted the most.

 

even when they fuck, even when wooyoung was desperate, he was never short of being perfect. he hovers over hongjoong, pulling and pushing until they were where he wants them to be, pretty fingers deftly prodding and stretching tight muscle. hongjoong watches his face, so deeply fascinated, completely enamored by the way wooyoung concentrates on opening his hyung up for his pretty weeping cock. he leans back, watches for a moment the way his fingers disappear inside his hyung’s hole, before he slips them out to hold his cock at the base as he inches closer. he doesn’t waste time to tease, instead pressing the blunt head of his cock right against the twitching hole and eases it in with an exhale. hongjoong likes this part - he gets to see wooyoung in a way no one has ever seen him. it feels intimate and personal, like a secret the boy whispers to him and him only.  he wants to keep these secrets like worn, monochromatic photographs in gold lockets. he wants to wear them around his neck forever. in these moments, he feels truly special, providing wooyoung of comfort and validation, as the younger pushes in and connects them body to body, soul to soul, and together, they ascend into a world that only the two of them know.

 

wooyoung cards a hand through hongjoong’s hair, staring down at him, communicating with his eyes that  _ this is what i need, thank you for this.  _ hongjoong smiles up at him, faltering only when wooyoung starts to piston into him faster, deeper. the hand in his hair starts to tighten painfully, forcefully pulling his head back and expose his neck. wooyoung dips down to attach his lips at the skin there, groaning against it. hongjoong’s skin prickle when he feels warm breath against him. he snakes an arm across wooyoung’s shoulders and combs his free hand through soft hair, holding on desperately as he feels himself grow nearer.

 

“close,” he pants. wooyoung gives his throat a wet kiss before he moves up to hover over him again, holding himself up with one arm while the other dips down between them, pretty fingers circling around hongjoong’s cock to stroke him in time with the quick snap of his hips.

 

hongjoong’s release washes over him. the tide stills momentarily, but his boat continues its violent rocking. overhead, a murder of crows circle and scatter around him. hongjoong fixes his gaze on a falling feather, slow and delicate. it grows in size as it descends down on him. his eyes flutter close and the feather softly touches his eyelids, like a sweet, fleeting brush of lips. wooyoung moves down to press a kiss on the corner of hongjoong’s mouth next, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek. wooyoung’s breath comes out in short pants against hongjoong’s unresponsive, slack mouth. this was the part that hongjoong likes the most. he likes the intimacy of this act, likes that wooyoung curls into him and covers him with his body. their skin was a hot, sweaty mess but hongjoong welcomes it, watching the faint glow on wooyoung’s bare shoulders down to his arms, the way it accentuates the attractive curve of muscle. hongjoong wants to wipe away the sweat there with his tongue. he wants to push into wooyoung’s head that he was the prettiest anyone has ever seen. he wants wooyoung to shake his head at him in disbelief and insist that he wasn’t. he wants wooyoung to wrap himself around hongjoong’s boat like an insecure octopus. he wants wooyoung to surrender himself and be completely dependent to him. he wants wooyoung to give him a reason to live. he wants wooyoung to keep making him feel like he matters, like he was important to someone. he wants wooyoung to perish without him. he wants to be wooyoung’s reason to live.

 

as wooyoung struggles to keep his boat afloat, hongjoong emerges from the depths of hell, from the bottom of the pitch black ocean floor, and pulls wooyoung’s head to the water.

 

“i want to save your life,” hongjoong says, his disgusting, scaly devil hands holding wooyoung down as the poor, pretty little thing tries to struggle against him.

 

hongjoong wraps his legs around wooyoung’s hips, keeping him in place. wooyoung groans and gives a particularly hard thrust, eyes falling shut as his pace grows sloppy and uncoordinated. hongjoong watches him, smile long gone and forgotten. he clenches around wooyoung, watching the boy’s mouth open with a silent moan, hips stuttering. wooyoung looks pretty, even with the sweat gathering on his forehead, even with the way his eyebrows furrow, eyes tightly screwed shut as he loses himself in pleasure. hongjoong places his hand over wooyoung’s - the one on his cheek - and smiles once again when the boy opens his eyes to meet his gaze. they were glazed at first, and wooyoung has to blink a few times so that they focus. when they do, hongjoong pulls him down by the back of the neck to give him a bruising kiss. there was a split second of nothing before he finally kisses back.

 

when wooyoung comes, hongjoong watches the boat tip and braces himself for the sharks. he knows what will happen next. after all of this, once wooyoung regains his footing and rows himself to the shore with a bright smile and a shining wall of self-confidence, hongjoong will be left alone to deal with his own insecurities. he drowns in envy. while he wants wooyoung to be happy, he wants wooyoung to need him too. he doesn’t want to let go. but for now…

 

for now, he will sink back down underwater, and watch his boat sway some thousands of meters above him.

 

wooyoung shifts closer to hongjoong, arm thrown over his waist, breath warm against the crook of hongjoong’s shoulder, evening out as he slowly drifts off to sleep. his voice was already distant when he speaks, “thank you, hyung.”

 

times like these, hongjoong feels the weight of his heart - full of love and affection.  _ happiness.  _ his heart was heavy, and in the best way. in these moments, he lets himself to be truly happy. these boys were his life - and he swears on it, that he will stay by their side, protect them, support them, and make them happy for the rest of his life, no matter how short or long that was. he will always be here, even after their contract was long over, even if circumstances try to pry them apart, even if opportunities open doors for them in separate directions, even if the boys no longer want him to be around. no matter what, he would always be here, door open, with welcoming arms. he would always be here, ready for when the need for him arises. in moments like these, hongjoong doesn’t push away the warmth in his chest. he doesn’t deny himself of the pleasant bubbling of emotion. there was not a single thought in his mind that he needs to stomp, lock away, repress. in moments like these, he swears to himself, he will hold on for as long as he could, stay strong for as long as he could. if any of the boys ask, he will stay afloat for as long as they need him to. for now, in the warm embrace of a perfect, beautiful boy in deep sleep, hongjoong makes this place his home.

 

wooyoung pulls himself out of the water and gasps for breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
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	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw self harm, very brief suicidal thoughts, mentions of blood, some slut shaming ?

it has been days since  _ the incident, _ and unsurprisingly, they don’t talk about it. seonghwa had curled up on the floor that night, crying hard into his own hands, and hongjoong only waited for him to tire himself out. when he did, he got up and crawled onto the bed, sniffling and wetting hongjoong with his tears. he tried to go for a cuddle, or just anything, really, but hongjoong flat out refused him. now that he bled out his longing for his hyung, disappointment and anger started to bubble up instead. cuddles, really? after everything that happened? hongjoong just breathed and then seonghwa suddenly stopped sleeping in their room, fucking around with pretty little yeosang and now what?  _ cuddles? _ like a petty fucking brat, hongjoong pushed the older boy away and left to sleep elsewhere, let his dumb hyung see what it was like.

 

in the morning, hongjoong woke up well-rested and comfortable. their bunk beds weren’t the largest, most spacious beds in the world, and mingi’s hundred-something feet long limbs didn’t help the case, but it was comfortable enough. more comfortable than the bed he almost shared with a crocodile-teared  _ snake _ .

 

things were tense between them. the kids start whispering noisily behind them, giggling about something along the lines of  _ “they’re having a lover’s quarrel”, _ which prompts seonghwa to glare and tell them off while hongjoong remains silent in his own little space. he always did find that things were easily solved when ignored. he ignores seonghwa, too. he knows he was being childish and petty for no good reason, still, he continues. it feels good seeing seonghwa look at him helplessly like a kicked dog.

 

who fucking cares what seonghwa thinks? ah, right,  _ yeosang. _ when hongjoong rejects seonghwa, he would always go to  _ yeosang.  _ every. single. time. they think they were so slick, sneaking behind everyone’s back to conspire against hongjoong. he knows what they were doing. he was aware of it all - the glances, the whispers, the elbow bumps and the head turns, the nodding at his direction. hongjoong sneers. fuck what they think.

 

the younger boys try to tell him not to skip lunch, but hongjoong pulls his  _ i’m your hyung  _ card to effectively shut them up. yeosang gets nothing, though. snakes don’t deserve shit, not even attention.

 

seonghwa tries to scold him, but all the words that enter hongjoong’s left ear fly out to the right. hongjoong acts like he doesn’t exist. actually, no, he doesn’t. he listens, and he does the opposite of what he was told, just to be petty.

 

eventually, seonghwa stops talking.

 

hongjoong’s food consumption and sleeping habits start to vary by mood. when he was feeling relatively happy, he would allow himself to pig out on junk food and several cans of energy drinks. he takes naps after some time, maybe give himself twenty minutes to a whole hour. inspiration flow through his veins. when he was happy, he was more inspired. he gets to write more songs. beats start to play in his head out of nowhere. lots of work get done.

 

but when his mood drops, like it always does, he removes food and rest completely out of the equation. his veins were grey and dead, absolutely nothing flowing through them. he has wrung himself completely dry.

 

people always say  _ what’s bad for the heart is good for the art.  _ what people fail to acknowledge was that once you start feeling like the mess you are, it was hard to be productive. even getting up would be a huge chore. during these times, words would float uselessly above his head with no lines to connect with each other. they would soundlessly fall flat -  _ meaningless _ \- and then he would stop coming up with words completely.

 

sometimes, he takes his glass shard into his hand and thinks. he wants to rip the inspiration out of his veins but he knows his shaking hand could only take him as shallow as a layer of skin.

 

he skips all of his meals. his stomach has flattened up beautifully during these times. it was a pleasant feeling - to be able to achieve something like that without having to do anything. he would admire himself in the mirror then, marvel at the smooth expanse of skin - a single ray of sunlight in the midst of a dark sky. he was still lonely and ugly. what a fucking joke.

 

no matter which mood he falls on, seonghwa would always be there to pick up after him. on the days he eats nothing but shit, seonghwa would kick his door down and spoon-feed him the entire food pyramid. all his energy drinks would be confiscated, and their fridge would lose the rest of its stock of the damn thing. instead, seonghwa stabs IV drips into his arms, pump water and orange juice into his veins.

 

on the days he refuses to eat at all, seonghwa would knock at the door gently and let himself in as quietly as he could. he would carry a tray of food - always a three course meal. he would sit beside hongjoong and just smile, patiently watching the younger boy eat an eighth of the plate and nibble on the fruit that was chosen as that day’s dessert. on those days, seonghwa lets him get away with eating just a grain of rice, with drinking just a sip of water.

 

it hurts.

 

seonghwa’s gentleness hit harder than his brute force.

 

before seonghwa leaves, he would tell hongjoong he did a good job and kiss him goodbye, right on the forehead. when he has gone and the door has closed, hongjoong would kind of just...slump on his seat and cry a little bit. a lot. he would cry a lot, and then he would write apologies. those times, inspiration would come flowing back, slowly but surely, blackened by loneliness and sadness and hatred. he thinks about how seonghwa probably meets up with yeosang after his visits.

 

but aside from forcing him to eat, seonghwa leaves him alone the rest of the day.

 

freedom feels great, but the loneliness that gnaws at him overpowers any pleasant emotion that tries to bubble into the surface. with just the company of his own mind, hongjoong pours all his energy into making music. he thinks of seonghwa’s soothing voice. he thinks of the way yeosang covers his face when he was flustered.

 

hongjoong manages to compose several songs in less than a week - nearly half of them already laid with beats that he produced all by himself. it was great. he wants to pat himself on the back. he did well, but his achievements ring hollow. he was alone. he misses seonghwa.

 

all the songs he finished gets binned almost immediately. there were several variations of  _ i’m sorry’s _ and  _ i love you’s _ that he wasn’t proud to let the world hear. the others were just lyrical poems he wrote about yeosang’s smile. he compiles all the audio files into one zip folder that he drags into a regular folder, which he doesn’t rename so it remains an inconspicuous  _ new folder. _ every time he enters the studio after his very rare, very short breaks, he sits in front of his computer and stares at it as it sits innocently on his desktop. he misses seonghwa. he misses being nagged at.

 

when his computer goes to sleep mode, he was left staring at his reflection on the black screen instead. the bags under his eyes were darker and more prominent. there were blackheads and pimples of varying sizes littering his face. his hair grew unruly from the days it went uncombed. but more than anything, the exhaustion that he was too busy to feel finally catches up to him.  _ he misses seonghwa. _

 

but he  _ hates _ him. seonghwa doesn’t miss him - he has his  _ yeosang _ to run to. yeosang was pretty, infinitely prettier than hongjoong will ever be. he was  _ pure.  _ he was shy and quiet and gets flustered easily. probably why seonghwa likes him - he likes them innocent and pure,  _ untouched, _ no raging hormones and ridiculous sex drives, no  _ sadness.  _ hongjoong was straight up garbage. actually, he doesn’t blame seonghwa for it, not at all. he doesn’t hate him for it. he understands. he  _ agrees. _

 

apparently, at some point during hongjoong’s very productive times alone, seonghwa has started sleeping on the bottom bunk. every single night, he would check on the kids to make sure they were all sleeping soundly in their own beds. he sees them individually, walking towards the bunk beds. hongjoong crouches by the doorway and watches the older boy tuck everyone in. he takes the longest with yeosang, because _of_ _course_ he does, and the two of them exchange words in whispers, before yeosang lies down and pulls the blanket up to his chin. seonghwa moves along.

 

when he was done, he would quietly slip back into their room, shutting the lights behind him as he passes by the main switch. hongjoong huddles behind the couch, trying to will his heart from breaking as seonghwa gives hongjoong’s empty studio a lingering stare before he finally retreats into their quarters. the door never fully shuts behind him. hongjoong wonders if seonghwa only does that because he was hoping hongjoong would join him some time in the night. probably not. maybe he was just waiting for yeosang. ah, but pure, innocent yeosang wouldn’t do that. hongjoong wonders if they have even kissed yet. maybe just a peck? or just on the cheek? yeosang probably turned into a blushing mess. seonghwa probably found it endearing.

 

and there it was again - anger, loneliness, sadness, insecurity, and now,  _ jealousy. _

 

hongjoong just wants to be held. he just wants his hyung back - he wants his hyung’s attention on him again. he wants to be touched, to be caressed, to be fucked with abandon. he pushes away his hyung even as he scrambles madly for attention. he wants seonghwa to fight against him - he wants seonghwa to forcefully tear down the walls he built around himself and pull him up from the grave he dug. but seonghwa was too nice for that. he knows his place, he stays in his lane. when hongjoong says no, when hongjoong sends the message that he wants to be alone, seonghwa politely steps aside. he leaves, just as pleaded. hongjoong wishes he doesn’t.

 

hongjoong knows that all of this could easily be avoided had he just  _ acted _ like a normal person and let his hyung in, but  _ no, _ kim hongjoong doesn’t do normal. too easy, too conventional. fuck  _ that, _ right? play with others’ feelings first. let them feel bad, make them really feel the hurt he was feeling.

 

he was strange and weird and he doesn’t  _ give _ answers - he lets people  _ guess.  _ similarly, he doesn’t ask for them, he lets himself guess as well. he plays by assumption. he lights up in red and hopes people see green. in the end, he only ever talks to himself and hopes that other people hear.

 

and now that his relationship with seonghwa grew cold, the older boy resorted to confiding in yeosang. but he doesn’t hate him for it. he understands. if it were the other way around, he would do the same. hell, if he could leave his own body to reside in a different one, he would.

 

and then, at some point, he lets the younger boys take care of him. he starts to listen to them again. when he was feeling especially lonely, he stops ignoring yeosang too.

 

yeosang was a nice boy. it should be hard to hate him, but nice people always get shit just because they were too nice. hongjoong hates himself. he hates that he was that kind of person. so he gives yeosang a chance - no, he gives  _ himself _ a chance. but being around yeosang reminds him of who he couldn’t have right now. it was hard to ignore. he tells himself that love will feel the same no matter who it was from, but deep inside, he was always waiting for his hyung.

 

it was kind of pathetic, really. see, when he was younger, he was always taught to give himself to someone that he trusts, to someone that he intends to marry. don’t offer himself to just anyone, the adults had told him. seonghwa wasn’t  _ just _ anyone, but now, it starts to feel like he was. hongjoong feels angry. he feels abandoned. he feels robbed of something he willingly gave away. things like these don’t matter to him - he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box but he was at least a little bit aware. virginity doesn’t mean shit, it was a social construct designed to shame people on the amount of sex they were having, or the lack thereof. the hymen doesn’t break, santa wasn’t real. so while hongjoong hasn’t lost anything, he  _ did _ give seonghwa all of his trust. that was where he went wrong. that was what the adults should have warned him of - beware of seemingly trustworthy men. beware of seemingly understanding men. they were not what they seem. but hongjoong knows seonghwa was never the bad guy.

 

seonghwa only gave him what he wants - he told his hyung that he likes him, the dim desk lamp casting light over them like golden moonlight, a little over two years ago, that  _ please, can i kiss you? _ there were drying tears on his cheeks then, his vision still a little blurry as he looked up at seonghwa, watching the older boy close the distance between them to seal their lips into a kiss.

 

he had given seonghwa all of his trust, and somewhere along the way, he gave him his whole heart too. he gave and gave and gave, until there was nothing left of him, just flimsy thread barely holding him together. seonghwa never asked for any of this, but no, hongjoong insists. here, take his whole life. it was his now. do whatever with it.

 

hongjoong’s generosity was spun out of his own selfishness. he wants seonghwa to know the inner workings of his mind, so he opens up his head and hopes - no,  _ expects _ it to be enough. he gave seonghwa this much, that should be enough for a simple task such as mind reading, no? fixing him should be easy. he tells seonghwa everything he hates about himself and expects him to fix everything. but how could he expect someone else to do that when he couldn’t do it himself?

 

hongjoong sits cross-legged on the floor, watching seonghwa settle uncomfortably on the top bunk, restlessly trying to fall asleep before he gives up after an hour. on shaking legs, he descends onto the bottom bunk and crawls under the covers. it was quiet, almost soundless, but hongjoong hears the unmistakable, pitiful sob that rips out of seonghwa’s throat, even as he tries to muffle it against hongjoong’s pillow. he cries, body curled around a squished mini-hong until he relaxes, eventually crying himself to sleep. like a creep, hongjoong watches through the crack on the door, waiting a whole hour before he slips inside as quietly as he could. he stands by the foot of the bed, just watching, and later lets the weight of his heart push him to lie down beside his hyung.

 

ever the light sleeper, seonghwa rouses from his sleep, and in a state of panic and surprise, he shoots upright.

 

“joong?” he calls uncertainly, squinting in the dark. his eyes hasn’t adjusted yet, and he was still half-asleep. hongjoong uses this moment to push himself off of the bed, landing painfully on his ass, and frantically scrambling off the floor and back to the safe confines of his cramped, lonely studio.

 

back there,  _ new folder _ stares unblinkingly at him. hongjoong opens it and unzips the folder inside. he rests his shaking left hand lightly on the keyboard, pinky finger holding down the  _ ctrl _ key, index finger pressing the  _ A _ key. he releases them at the same time, highlighting all the folder’s contents - the half-baked audio apologies that he produced over the past few days and worship songs about the one true god yeosang. he puts his headphones over his ears, and presses  _ enter. _ when several windows of the mixing software pops up all over the screen, he turns up the volume. he misses seonghwa.  _ he misses seonghwa. _

 

one evening, hongjoong emerges out of his cave and crawls toward the kitchen. yeosang’s back was turned to him, the younger boy opening the overhead cupboards, greeted by boxes of cereal, jars and containers of various cooking ingredients. one only contained a single, dusty pack of pasta, and the one on the far left was completely empty. yeosang pulls at his pant sleeves before he crouches down, opening the cupboard right below the sink.

 

“there you are,” yeosang mutters to himself, reaching inside to grab the bottle of bleach. hongjoong stares at it, and watches yeosang get up and tread to his and wooyoung’s room. hongjoong thinks about the bleach. he thinks about all the stomachache he’d wake up to.

 

in his head, yeosang grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls his head back by hair. when he lets out a pained cry, yeosang thrusts the bottle into his mouth.

 

hongjoong gags at the phantom liquid down his throat. he could hear the beat of his heart drumming wildly against his ears. he runs to his room, pushing the slack door with his whole body. he drops to the floor, undoubtedly bruising his knees, and blindly reaches underneath the bunk bed, until his hand meets a very familiar box. he pulls the box out of its hiding place, listening to the faint jiggle of its contents as it slides close.

 

he should’ve let seonghwa cuddle with him. if he had just let him, maybe seonghwa would be here with him right now. maybe seonghwa wouldn’t be crying on his bed while he was away. maybe seonghwa wouldn’t seek for yeosang’s affection. maybe hongjoong wouldn’t be doing this right now. he carries a single glass shard to his studio. he thinks about cutting the cords connected to his computer. he thinks about dragging its pointed end across his screen.

 

hongjoong sits down, putting his headphones over his head. he opens  _ new folder, _ fingers hovering over the  _ select all _ keys, holding, pressing, releasing. the enter key was hit next. music screams against his ears in desperate apologies, pathetic love confessions, and self-deprecating gospel.

 

he hates this. he feels like pure shit and it was all his fault. all he ever does was make the bad turn for the worst and act like the fucking victim. all he ever does was feel bad about himself and not do anything about it. and he was so, so  _ ugly.  _ ugly and filthy,  _ disgusting, _ pathetic, lonely, sadsadsad _ sad. _

 

a glass shard swiftly passes and for a moment, there was a brief blooming of  _ cold, _ before the warmth settles in and the blood starts to bubble to the surface.  _ it feels so fucking good. _

 

he cries a little bit. a lot. he cries a lot. he runs the shard in succession, parallel, crisscross, over old scars, over new wounds, over untouched skin. he stretches his leg and watches the blood roll down his thigh. gently, he holds the shard over the wounds, flat side down, and pats it against skin. harder, next, getting blood on it and smearing it around pink, delicate skin. he does his other thigh next. it fascinates him, makes him weirdly giddy,  _ elated. _ he wants to get up and fucking dance. he hopes these would scar badly, oh  _ please _ let them scar. let him be uglier  _ please. _

 

and then the door swings open. hongjoong feels his blood run cold -  _ hah, _ blood, more blood, yay -, looking up to meet san’s blank eyes from where he was seated, shorts pulled down to tangle around his ankles, one hand loosely clutching a bloodstained glass shard while the other was pressing on wounded thighs that were crying lightning down to his knees. san takes one step back and closes the door. hongjoong exhales and lowers himself off of his seat and onto the floor. his skin feels warm, glowing a faint red, but there were ice in his veins. shame washes over him like a familiar, gentle tide. so familiar, yet still so unwelcome. he wants to stab himself in the eyes. he thinks about what he has done.  _ try dancing now, dumbass. _

 

the next time he sees san, he watches the boy tell him something. he blocks out all of the sounds coming out of san’s mouth, replaces it with the noise he produced in the past few days. san’s lips move and form syllables. his eyes were sharp. but hongjoong only hears his own voice. he hears seonghwa’s muffled cries. wordlessly, he turns on his heel and goes to his room. he lies down on his bed in a fetal position, wrapping his arms around his bear plush toy.

 

a foreign weight settles on the side of the bed, and hongjoong feels warmth press against his back. a hand rests on his shoulder. hongjoong’s ears clear of noise.

 

“san told me,” seonghwa says. he shifts a little bit on the bed, before he scoots just the tiniest bit, and the bed creaks under added weight. he lies down, chest to hongjoong’s back. it was warm, but his breath against the shell of hongjoong’s ear was infinitely warmer. his voice, volume dropped to a mellow whisper, was hellfire unleashed: “i’m sorry.”

 

some two years ago, on the same bed, they had lied together, just like this, just as close. hongjoong’s thighs press together, arms tightening around the plush toy. he hates that that was how reacts to all of this, but he couldn’t help it. the toy was barely long enough for him to wrap his legs around, but it was just the perfect length for him to rut into. subtly, he pulls the toy close against him, pressure barely there but still very much welcomed. behind him, seonghwa scoots even closer and slips an arm over him.

 

“i’m sorry for everything,” seonghwa continues. “for not… doing enough. i should’ve been there.”

 

hongjoong nuzzles his face on the plush toy, closing his eyes. there wasn’t any real reason for seonghwa to apologize. he was doing his best. hongjoong just keeps pushing him away. still, when hongjoong talks, his words come out angry and bitter:  “i don’t know why you’re apologizing.” he really doesn’t.

 

it makes him grimace. he could picture seonghwa’s frown already. he wants to apologize and clarify what he means, but instead, he remains silent and broods on his plush toy like a rotten child. his petty heart tells him to make the older boy work for it -  _ really _ work for it. cue the appearance of angel!hongjoong and devil!hongjoong:

 

“he cried on our bed, hongjoong,” the tiny angel says. “he sleeps here and hugs mini-hong and cries on our pillow. he feeds us. he cares a lot, and he’s apologizing even though he did absolutely nothing wrong.”

 

“oh please,” the devil scoffs, arms crossed over his chest. “he didn’t even try to make things right. so fucking  _ what _ if feeds us every now and then? did he do anything else? he knows we what we’re capable of doing and yet i haven’t seen him try to stop us even  _ once _ . you heard him - he said he should’ve been there.  _ should’ve.  _ and now we’re supposed to feel bad because he cries on our bed?”

 

angel!hongjoong tries to counter but seonghwa speaks over him: “i wish i could take all of this away.”

 

and then seonghwa’s hand slides down from hongjoong’s hips to his thigh, thumb daintily rubbing circles near where the wounds were, before it stops and his hand comes to lay flat there instead. hongjoong distantly hears him say something else, but all he could focus on was the warmth of his hyung’s hand through his clothes. he closes his thighs tightly around his plush toy with a bitten down whine.

 

“hongjoong?” seonghwa calls, lifting himself up slightly to look at the other’s face. hongjoong hides himself in mini-hong. “hongjoong, talk to me please.” he shakes his head. “do you want me to leave?”

 

“no!” hongjoong squeaks, voice breaking from being unused for so long, pulling away from the toy to face his hyung. he feels like crying.

 

“you want me to stay?”

 

“please.”

 

they stare at each other for a while. hongjoong’s eyesight suddenly blurs, and his lips wobble. he starts to cry. he was so so lonely. he doesn’t want to be alone again. he doesn’t want to hurt himself again.

 

“please,” he repeats. “please.  _ please.” _

 

seonghwa’s eyebrows furrow, thumb coming up to hongjoong’s face to wipe at a tear that he doesn’t feel roll. “please what?”

 

“i - i like you,” hongjoong says, voice sounding kind of punched out or shy or both, like the first time he said it. he blinks, and then rubs at his eyes furiously before seonghwa catches his hand and moves it away from his face. his throat was feeling weird, kind of closed up, like how it always was when he cries. “i love you.”

 

“i love - ”

 

“kiss me.”

 

hongjoong likes seonghwa, he really does. seonghwa always aims to please. he would always put other people first before himself, selflessly doing his best so that everyone was happy. and when everyone was finally calm and sated, he too would feel the same. that was where he draws his energy from. it was undeniably admirable, and hongjoong could probably learn from that. but he doesn’t. instead, he leeches on the older boy like the parasite he was.

 

seonghwa leans down obediently, giving him a peck on the lips, but hongjoong fists at the front of his shirt to pull him down for more.

 

when hongjoong has a leg hooked over seonghwa’s shoulder as he gets fucked after what feels like years of being touch starved, he thinks,  _ fuck kang yeosang. _

 

he feels triumphant, winning over seonghwa like this, kissing away traces of the younger boy on their hyung’s skin, but he deflates immediately. there never was any trace in the first place. instead, hongjoong only succeeds in submerging seonghwa into putrid filth, while yeosang continues to preserve his purity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE!!!
> 
> this chapter contains very ignorant and possibly even harmful mindset/beliefs about mental illness (specifically depression).
> 
> don’t be like the narrator - _do your research._ educate yourselves. get help when you can.

hongjoong doesn’t always keep all of his feelings locked in his head. he tries to talk. he used to talk a lot, actually, maybe a bit too much, which was why he stopped doing it altogether. it was kind of fruitless, too. talking has always been so exhausting to him. it takes a lot of energy, and trying to form sentences out of jumbled thoughts requires a lot of effort. but in the end, if people don’t know, then they don’t understand. he tries really hard to communicate how he feels, and more often than not, people tell him to just  _ work harder _ and that  _ it will pass. _ it makes his heart ache, but in time, he learns that everyone has been right all along.

 

“i hate when i feel that way,” wooyoung says sympathetically, nodding his head. “i get really depressed sometimes too, but i just dance and practice some more. it goes away afterwards.”

 

“i go outside when i’m feeling depressed,” yeosang pipes up, body leaning on hongjoong’s side. it was borderline uncomfortably warm. “and - and, uh, i go to, um, you.” yeosang’s cheeks color and a hint of a shy smile breaks on his lips. he looks down on his clasped hands, placed on his lap. “you make me feel better.”

 

hongjoong smiles mutedly at him, putting a hand on top of his and giving them a squeeze.

 

this. this was why. hongjoong knows the kids mean well - they were trying to be understanding and sympathetic, but they keep getting the wrong idea about things. first, hongjoong wouldn’t really say that what he was feeling was  _ depression. _ and depression wasn’t even an emotion in the first place. that was… he wasn’t sick, and neither were these two. sadness and depression were two different things. one passes by quickly like the kids had said, and the other… hongjoong doesn’t know. he doesn’t have it, so he wouldn’t possibly know.

 

seonghwa tells him he might. maybe he really was sick, seonghwa says. years ago, hongjoong had entertained that thought, that possibility. but it was always such a difficult thing to get your head around - so many conditional forks on the road, endless ifs and elses, some very contradicting, others just flat out confusing.

 

if you went out and told someone you were depressed, were you really? or were you just attention-seeking? why was this particular notion even viewed that way? someone says depression was common, but if it really were, why were people almost always doubted when they say they have it? why weren’t people taken seriously until after they do something as irreversible as killing themselves? and why was it that people only start receiving help when they fail a suicide attempt? were you really depressed if you don’t want to die? did you really want to die if you don’t try?

 

hongjoong doesn’t want to self-diagnose, but he doesn’t want to see a professional either. wouldn’t doing the latter imply that he already did the former? wouldn’t it imply that he thinks there was something wrong with him, that he was sick? he wasn’t sick.

 

“no, i don’t think it’s that serious. you just need to go out more, like yeosang said. go out of the studio, join us next time in the practice room,” wooyoung suggests.

 

a part of hongjoong agrees. it really wasn’t serious. he was just a moody person - that was normal. he wasn’t really always sad, but then again, depression doesn’t really mean that a person would be sad all the time either. he just gets sad very often, for long periods of time, for no absolute reason. but then again, wasn’t that what depression was? he doesn’t know where to draw the line - the things he experiences could easily be written off as  _ normal people things, _ but the other part of him, the one desperate for help, insists that there must be something to look at. but wooyoung and yeosang tells him it wasn’t that serious. it wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

 

sometimes, he thinks about it. he does some research, looks up keywords, reads up on articles and forums. it gives him relief, at least, knowing that there were people out there that feels the same way as him. it was comforting, at first, and then it starts to make him feel even worse. he wasn’t like any of these people. these people bond over the same pain, take the same medications, see the same therapists. they talk about their attempts, and send each other hugs over sad and happy things. he wasn’t sick.

 

seonghwa gives him a thoughtful look, lips pressing together into a thin line, gaze falling to the floor, before he speaks up:

 

“maybe you should see a professional.”

 

ridiculous. hongjoong wasn’t sick.

 

and still, layers underneath the thick brick of denial, was the lingering hope that maybe, maybe he really was sick, maybe there was  _ nothing _ wrong with him, maybe he could still get better.

 

but he was so  _ scared.  _ what if nothing turns out to be wrong? what if he was told,  _ no, hongjoong, you aren’t sick? _ it scares him. as twisted as it sounds, he  _ wishes _ he was sick, just so that he could take a palmful of medication and get rid of the sadness. he doesn’t want to be sad anymore. he hates it. he hates that he feels comfortable in its presence, because it stood tall and planted its roots into the depths of his mind until it was part of him. he hates that he has become so acquainted with it that it feels like his default emotion. when he wasn’t sad, he feels  _ empty _ instead, and when he was feeling empty, he feels  _ lost. _ he  _ wants _ to be sad - sadness was familiar.

 

these were the thoughts that pool the inside of his head - thoughts that he was ashamed of, more reasons he keeps to himself. he doesn’t know how to tell people about these, if he should even bring it up in the first place. if he doesn’t talk about them, then they don’t exist, just like the sickness he was suspected to have. there were people out there that were truly suffering, and hongjoong was here wishing he suffered the same way. it was messed up -  _ people die from this sickness. _

 

san tells him -  _ begs _ him - to talk to people. venting helps, he said. no it does not. venting doesn’t solve anything. talking was  _ exhausting. _ hongjoong tries to talk, and all he gets were  _ you’re doing fine, nothing is wrong, get over yourself.  _ he hates it but  _ god _ does it hurt so good. he doesn’t deserve the attention he cries for. he doesn’t deserve to waste other people’s time. what would he even say?

 

and besides, even if he wants to talk, the boys have their own problems to deal with. it was either him or them - and, well, he likes to put them over himself first.

 

occasionally, he gets asked about how he was feeling, but he doesn’t really know how to answer properly anymore. instead, he morphs everything into a self-deprecating joke that everyone laughs at, and then they talk about something else. after so long of denying himself the comfort of confiding in other people, he forgets how to do it completely.

 

so he bottles everything inside. he starts to feel bad about talking in the first place.  _ no one cares, _ no one has the time to listen, and he doesn’t have anything to talk about in the first place _.  _ let wooyoung dance his split second-long sadness away. let yeosang take three steps out the dorms and cheer himself up. hongjoong could just lock himself in his studio and hurt himself. he could just stay in bed all day and think about dying. he could just do nothing and starve himself.

 

things were better this way. years ago, he was a completely different person. he talked a lot about himself, showed his heart to his friends, and when people heard everything, when they heard enough, they stopped caring. he shared and shared and shared about himself until all passersby realized that was all he had to say. so many ears listened, or seemingly so, until he realized, when the sun had gone down, that no one really cared, and he was still a sad, lonely loser after his hours-long vent.

 

he used to talk quite a bit with seonghwa back then too. of course, seonghwa doesn’t understand.

 

one night, when the kids were asleep and the world turned for only the two of them with just the faint glow of the moon as their witness, hongjoong reluctantly opens his heart again. his fingers dance on seonghwa’s bare arm, tap tap tapping on the smooth skin, and then he leans close to breathe a secret against the other’s lips:

 

“maybe i really am sick.”

 

and then they kiss, slow and careful, and when they pull away, seonghwa hums in thought. he asks, “do you want to…?”

 

hongjoong doesn’t answer. instead, he cries soundlessly and buries his face on the crook of the other’s neck. he does. he wants to. but he was scared of what could entail. he wants his answer, but he was afraid it might not be what he was expecting, what he was hoping, that it could be. what would he do then? if he truly wasn’t sick, then what? he wants something to blame - he wants to be able to say,  _ this isn’t me, this is my sickness, there is nothing wrong with me. _ and if he wasn’t, well….

 

there would be nothing to do. he wants to be sick just so he could have a cure. it was selfish and ignorant, but he was desperate for a solution, a way out.

 

he takes up wooyoung’s invitation. they dance together until they start to burn in exhaustion, chests heaving, faces red, throats dry. still, wooyoung grins when he hands hongjoong bottled water.

 

“how was that?” he asks, or pants, more like. he unscrews his bottle and takes big gulps of water.

 

hongjoong blankly watches the attractive line of the other’s throat before he answers, “it was great. thanks, wooyoung.”

 

it really was great - for a second. as soon as the speakers grew silent and wooyoung had packed up his belongings and left, hongjoong feels the ever-present, dreaded emotion claw its way back into the crevice of his empty heart.

 

he goes out like yeosang suggested. he takes a long walk one morning, watching the streets get painted gold as the sun emerges from the other side of the world. he visits a coffee shop several streets away, and purchases a to-go cup that he nurses in his cold hands. a few feet away, he slows down his walking as an elderly woman greets him a good morning. he bows slightly and greets her back with a smile. she calls him  _ ‘that sweet idol boy’. _ from inside her house, a man in a crisp suit emerges, suitcase in hand, rushing out into the street. hongjoong steps aside for him and continues to walk.

 

it feels good. he starts to hear a beat form itself in his head, his fingers tapping along his to-go cup. when he finally goes home, the beat starts to grow faint until it disappears completely, and all he could hear was static. he discards his cup and enters the dorm.

 

san gives him an assortment of colored pens.

 

“it could help,” the kid says, “you can draw or write stuff where you want to _ ‘do it.’” _

 

it doesn’t help. hongjoong tries, he really does. when he was feeling self-destructive, he takes a pen and scribbles on his arm. he draws pictures - yellow smileys, red stick people, and sometimes, rainbows - but it doesn’t feel the same. it lacks the icy burn of a cut, and he doesn’t bleed or hurt. there was no comfort in it at all. it feels like a half-assed solution that someone who doesn’t understand him made up.

 

hongjoong sits in his studio, pulling the bottom drawer of his desk and shoves the pens inside. he slams it shut.

 

san brings up the concept of calming apps. they huddle together on hongjoong’s bed, seonghwa standing next to it as he looks down at their phone screens, browsing through the app store together. they download all apps that naver says were helpful, and together, they try them out for themselves.

 

it was kind of sad, really, how excited san was, how hopeful seonghwa looks. it brings down pressure on hongjoong’s shoulders, like he should be better after all this, and if he still wasn’t, then there really was something wrong with him. he doesn’t want to disappoint them, so he tap tap taps on his screen, following directions, and giving comments when the two boys ask him how the apps were.

 

when they leave him alone, he finally lets himself let out a resigned sigh. the apps weren’t really working. more than anything, they make him feel hollow. but he doesn’t want to blame them - they were trying to  _ help.  _ these apps probably helped thousands of other people already. all of them have good ratings and reviews; the developers were praised repeatedly and thanked for saving lives. hongjoong was just weird for not finding comfort in them. he was just weird for wanting to stick with his painful, self-destructive ways.

 

he continues to practice with wooyoung. at some point, the younger boy manages to rope yunho in it too. the more the merrier, he says with a big smile, far too big, far too chipper for someone who claims they were feeling  _ depressed _ that day.

 

yeosang starts to accompany hongjoong in his morning walks. they visit the coffee shop, buy drinks, and linger in their booth, longer than hongjoong would like. he prefers walking outside with just the company of chirping birds and distant chatter of groups of people, but he doesn’t complain, because yeosang only comes with him when the younger boy was feeling  _ depressed. _

 

hongjoong hates how lightly they use that word. it was a serious thing, a serious disorder, and they talk about it as if it was a mere emotion. that wasn’t what it was. but then again, what does  _ he _ know? maybe the kids really were depressed. you could never really tell with people. no matter how happy people seem, they still couldn’t be ruled out of the possibility. sick people don’t look a certain way,  _ act _ a certain way. people don’t have to be poor or struggling to have it. they don’t have to have a traumatizing upbringing. they don’t have to experience anything terribly life changing. people could just have it, period. and the trickiest part, was that it could be completely undetectable. anyone could have it, but you wouldn’t necessarily be able to tell. so the best course of action, regardless if you have a sneaking suspicion that this certain person could be sick or not, was to be there for them, and listen.

 

so even if hongjoong hates how easily they throw around the dreaded word, he doesn’t speak up on it. he lets them hold his hand and pull him wherever, when they say they badly need him. wherever he was needed, he goes, and these boys need him.

 

when wooyoung starts to get handsy in the middle of trying out a new routine, hongjoong lets him. when yeosang starts to sit beside hongjoong in the booths during their coffee shop runs, hongjoong lets him.

 

hongjoong doesn’t say anything. wordlessly, he drops to his knees in the practice room, eyes on wooyoung’s half-lidded ones, hands cupping the obvious tent on the younger boy’s sweatpants. at the coffee shop, he lets yeosang place his warm palm on the inside of his thigh, thumb slowly rubbing circles over the thin material of his pants.

 

“look at you,” wooyoung breathes, hips fucking into the warm mouth, fingers tangled in hongjoong’s hair, holding him in place.  _ “look at you,” _ he repeats, tone harder and sharper. hongjoong whimpers around his cock, obediently averting his gaze to turn to the mirror parallel to them. “so pretty.”

 

hongjoong moans, own cock twitching at the sound of the responding hiss above him. he stares at himself in the mirror, already completely naked and dropped to his knees like the pathetic slut he was, mouth full of cock, saliva dripping obscenely down the side of his lips, tears welling the corners of his eyes and drying at his cheeks. his face was all red, growing more flushed as he looks up to see wooyoung’s reflection. the boy was panting, staring right back at him with the same hungry look in his eyes, still completely clothed, completely covered down to the double knot of his shoelaces, with the sole exception of his zipped down fly and exposed cock.

 

the hand on his thigh crawls up higher, leaving teasing touches until it settles over his crotch, cupping him through his pants. hongjoong lets out a shaky breath, thighs closing. he bites the whine that threatens to spill, and looks up to meet yeosang’s wide, innocent eyes.

 

“is there a problem?” yeosang asks, blinking, but the corner of his lips give a traitorous twitch upwards. “why is hyung so flushed? are you sick?” and, with eyebrows furrowed in feigned concern, he holds his free hand against hongjoong’s forehead, before he drops it to hongjoong’s thigh, roughly pulling it to the side. without warning, he slips his other hand into the waistband of hongjoong’s pants.

 

hongjoong gasps as fingers wrap around his heated length, hips bucking up desperately. behind him, wooyoung lets out a breathless laugh, still watching him through the mirror. wooyoung gives him a long, languid stroke from base to tip, before he closes his fingers tightly around the sensitive cockhead, wrist twisting, one two three, and hongjoong keens, lifting his clenched fist off the floor to grasp weakly at wooyoung’s wrist. his other arm starts to shake under his weight, bending slightly at the elbows.

 

“so cute,” wooyoung coos, punctuating himself with a sharp roll of the hips. “why is hyung so cute?” he whines, lip jutting the tiniest bit, before the glint in his eyes makes itself known once again. he lets go of hongjoong’s cock, placing both hands on hongjoong’s waist, and starts to fuck him in earnest.

 

hongjoong clenches his eyes shut, mouth parting to let out a soundless gasp that breaks into a breathless cry, arm giving out. he catches himself before he falls face-first onto the hardwood floor, forearm supporting himself from under his chin, the other weakly trying to hold himself up from the side.

 

“look,  _ look,” _ wooyoung orders through gritted teeth, slapping his ass painfully, before using the same hand to pull at his hair. hongjoong opens his eyes, looking at the other boy’s reflection first before he looks at himself, neck and body bent uncomfortably, thighs shaking from how wide they were spread, his cock uselessly wet and hard between them.

 

he stretches his arms below him, pushing himself up until his neck was no longer craned painfully, until his back was no longer nearly bent in half. but wooyoung’s hand falls from his hair down to his nape, and forces him back onto the floor.

 

“please,” he begs, fingers curling into his palm, eyes falling shut once again. “please,” he repeats, in a shaky, hushed voice. warmth inches toward him, closing into his space, blowing breath against the shell of his ear. he whimpers, yeosang’s slim fingers tightening around his cock, pumping him hard and fast, in contrast to the warm palm stroking his thigh, back and forth, back and forth, as if petting him consolingly.

 

yeosang dips down to press a kiss against his jawline, whispering against skin, “look.”

 

hongjoong obediently opens his eyes again, bleary and welled with tears, meeting yeosang’s gentle gaze and soft smile. yeosang was sitting back on his spot again, legs crossed, hand off of hongjoong’s thigh and holding his mug, the other still very much between hongjoong’s legs. the boy mouths, “look,” to which hongjoong responds with a dazed nod. he turns to scope out the coffee shop, ears open for ringing bells and chatter, eyes on every other breathing organism that might see them and ruin their careers. the line up front was empty, and the employees were all either very sleepy or busy on their phones.

 

“keep looking,” yeosang orders, and hongjoong jerks, knee noisily hitting a table leg as he feels the younger boy thumb at the slit of his cock. a few feet away, over at the counter, seemingly in slow motion, an employee starts to turn from where she was idly standing. and then yeosang’s warmth, yeosang’s hand all still. hongjoong was suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings: the bicyclist that passes by outside, the faint ticking of a clock somewhere inside the shop, the tight squeeze of yeosang’s fingers around his throbbing cock.

 

the employee looks around the shop, one eyebrow quirked, before her gaze falls directly onto hongjoong’s for a split second. she turns to look at the other occupied tables next, and, with a shrug, turns back around. he hears yeosang snort next to him, clearly amused by the sudden twitch of hongjoong’s cock, the rough pad of his thumb running over the sensitive cockhead, over the slit, gathering and spreading his wetness.

 

yeosang scoots close again, until their thighs were touching. “she scared you that much, hyung?” he teases, and picks up the pace. in reality, the sound of wet skin was probably, if not completely, inaudible, but it rings loud against hongjoong’s ears. yeosang leans into the other’s space, breath suddenly labored, free hand coming up to rest on hongjoong’s thigh before his fingers curl tightly like claws.

 

“i want you to come all over my hand,” he whispers, fingers tight, wrist twisting, thumb scraping the slit, hand cupping the head - “hyung,  _ hyung,” _ he chants, breathlessly, watching the way his hand moves inside hongjoong’s pants, closing his teeth around his bottom lip, pace growing messy and sloppy as if he were touching himself instead.

 

“yeosang,” hongjoong whimpers, eyes wild, hips bucking deliriously into the younger’s hold. “‘m gonna come,” and then yeosang was hurriedly pulling at hongjoong’s pants, pulling his cock free. hongjoong could only watch in horror as yeosang bends down, wrapping his lips around the cockhead, hand stroking him to completion.  _ “yeosang,” _ hongjoong hisses through gritted teeth, partly to scold, partly to stop himself from letting out a louder noise. he pushes yeosang’s head down and bucks his hips despite all the red flags in his head, riding out his high, fucking his come as far down as he could, down yeosang’s hot, tight throat. he snaps his mouth shut and covers it with his free hand, barely enough to muffle his scream, hips stuttering as yeosang swallows around him.

 

the sound of a camera shutter makes him look up.

 

at the mirror, he watches wooyoung slap his ass and pull one cheek to the side, camera lens following the motion with a series of shutter sounds. hongjoong hides his face, into the bend of his arms, and listens to wooyoung’s hiss when he unconsciously clenches his hole.

 

“hyung is  _ so _ naughty,” wooyoung says, phone speakers suddenly growing silent. he was filming a video. “you like that, hyung?” hongjoong wants to shake his head, but he doesn’t move instead. “san wants to see you on your back.”

 

like an obedient slut, hongjoong plops down on his back. wooyoung immediately resumes his position between his thighs, cockhead pressing against his entrance.

 

“check this,” wooyoung says, pointing the lens downwards where he starts to tap his cockhead against hongjoong’s loose hole. hongjoong clenches and unclenches, hands restlessly clutching at nothing.

 

“wooyoungie,” he pleads.

 

“cute,” and wooyoung fucks back inside, his whole length slipping with ease in just one fluid snap of the hips. hongjoong’s back arches, fingers scratching at the floor, eyes falling shut.  _ “cute.” _ when hongjoong opens his eyes again, wooyoung was holding his phone directly over his face.

 

hongjoong whines and throws his arm over his eyes, but wooyoung was quick to catch it, fingers wrapping around his wrist and pinning it next to his head.  _ “wooyoung,” _ hongjoong whines, turning his head the other way, away from the intimidating eyes of the camera.

 

“no?” wooyoung asks, faltering, holding his phone away. hongjoong shakes his head. wooyoung puts his phone on lock, and leans down to capture hongjoong’s lips in a kiss. “sorry,” he says, pressing one last kiss, before he leans back and pistons his hips against hongjoong’s, like his pace wasn’t broken in the first place.

 

underneath, hongjoong screams, fingers clawing at the floor, desperately finding purchase before finding themselves on wooyoung’s forearms, scratching red marks on skin, legs wrapping around the other’s hips. wooyoung curses, leaning down again, lips pressing wetly against the side of hongjoong’s neck.

 

“hyung, please - please,” wooyoung begs, pace slowing down when he pulls out, cock dragging sinfully inside tight heat, before he slams back in, cockhead brushing right at the sensitive spot that makes hongjoong’s eyes flutter and his toes curl. “please, hyung. can i - can i - ”

 

hongjoong tangles his fingers in the younger’s hair, pulling him closer, shuddering as he feels a wet tongue lick at his skin. “wooyoung, y-you can’t - ”

 

_ “god,” _ wooyoung moans, panting, closing his lips around skin and sucking harshly.

 

“n-nowhere visible, idiot!” hongjoong scolds, but bares his neck regardless, not moving to stop wooyoung even as the younger boy starts to suck several hickeys all over his throat.

 

and then wooyoung was pulling away, eyes glazed as he rakes it over hongjoong’s trembling form.  _ “fuck, _ hyung,” he curses, wrapping a hand around hongjoong’s neck, closing tightly, the other taking the older’s wrist and pinning it over his head. “why are we given such a naughty hyung?” he asks in disappointment, furrowing his brows, but he was betrayed by the evil, amused glint in his eyes. “why is our leader so  _ slutty?” _ and hongjoong keens, giving him a show of struggle, attempting to pull his arm free but with no real strength behind it. he wraps his free hand around wooyoung’s wrist, the one choking him, and pulls at it,  _ closer. _ wooyoung’s teeth clench, and all mocking, playful demeanor leaves his body.

 

wooyoung fucks like he was angry, all sinful rolls of the hips and furious, hard thrusts that nearly pushes hongjoong further up the floor if it weren’t for wooyoung’s bruising hold on him.

 

“g-gonna come,” wooyoung grits, hips stuttering. “w-want to fill hyung up,” he moans. “want to fill our  _ leader _ up with - with my come.”

 

“wooyoung,” hongjoong warns, but his legs tighten traitorously around the other’s hips. “y-you can’t -  _ fuck _ \- not i-inside.”

 

“if i can’t, then let me go.”

 

hongjoong whines, clenching around wooyoung’s cock. he laughs breathlessly at the resulting hiss, but stops when the hand around his throat gives it a warning squeeze. wooyoung looks down, watching his cock disappear inside hongjoong, mouth slack, and he rolls his hips, once, twice, the legs around his hips tightening, his eyes falling shut.

 

and then he releases all of his hold on hongjoong, hands suddenly warm on the underside of hongjoong’s thighs, roughly pulling him off of his cock. wooyoung strokes himself, pressing his cockhead against hongjoong’s twitching hole.

 

_ “wooyoungie,” _ moans hongjoong, wrapping his hand around his own cock, sloppily, desperately trying to match wooyoung’s pace. the pressure against his hole was enough to have him reeling, and with the knowledge that  _ he _ has wooyoung this way sends him tipping nearly at the edge. if only, oh  _ if only _ wooyoung didn’t pull out. if only he had said yes -

 

wooyoung comes with a bitten off cry, in thick and hot spurts, trembling hands moving to rest on hongjoong’s thighs as he ruts his weeping cock against the come-covered hole. hongjoong whines, reaching past his legs to prod at his slick hole, fingers gathering wooyoung’s come to fuck them inside him.

 

“hyung,  _ fuck,” _ and wooyoung scrambles above him, phone back in hand, his own fingers joining hongjoong’s. “such a cumslut too,” he says breathlessly, fingers fucking in and out of hongjoong, curling, as he watches the other’s pitiful reactions.

 

hongjoong looks up, speeding up the hand around his cock, lip caught between his teeth, staring right at the camera lens. wooyoung curses, phone carelessly thrown at the side, lowering himself on the floor to fit his head between his hyung’s thighs, mouth warm and wet around hongjoong’s cock, head bobbing in time with the thrust of his fingers. one last curl of his fingers makes hongjoong see stars, hips bucking into the warm heat, hand holding the other down as he comes with a shout.

 

hongjoong slumps, panting heavily, watching the other get up from between his thighs. now upright, yeosang flashes him a smile before he clears his throat.

 

“h-home?” yeosang suggests, voice nearly dead in his throat. hongjoong laughs.

 

“yes, home.”

 

yeosang gets up first, hands stuffed in his pockets, oversized shirt smoothed down to his thighs. he never really does anything about himself after their coffee runs, even when hongjoong offers. he would always refuse politely, saying that he was content in just giving.

 

hongjoong takes some time to catch his breath, nearly falling asleep, before he accepts the hand offered to him, and gets up. he picks up his clothes, scattered all over the practice room floor, and tugs them on. wooyoung stands near the door, distractedly tapping on his phone.

 

“ready?” wooyoung asks, pocketing his phone.

 

a beat forms inside hongjoong’s head. quietly at first, still trying to establish itself, still finding its direction. softly, a voice follows, crooning, a gentle lull in his ears, wrapping around words until he has a full verse. everything grows louder and louder, and as they toe off their shoes at the doorway of their dorms, hongjoong has a full song playing inside his head.

 

yeosang smiles shyly at him, eyes alternating between looking at hongjoong and looking at his feet, before he steps closer, and presses a kiss on hongjoong’s cheek. he hides his face behind his hand when he steps back, his whole face flushed cutely. even the tips of his ears were red. “thank you,” he mumbles, and he scurries away, shrieking when he nearly trips on his own feet.

 

wooyoung was a little more bold - he strides into hongjoong’s space and envelopes him in a long hug, nuzzling his face against the neck he previously marked. “thank you for today, hyung,” he says, peppering kisses all over hongjoong’s face, laughing at the older’s grimace. “hyung is so cute,” he teases, giving him a kiss on the nose, before he pecks hongjoong on the lips. “so cute,” and he licks at the seam of hongjoong’s mouth, licking inside as soon as they part, pushing hongjoong against the wall. he pulls away with a giggle, and runs off to his room. or san’s.

 

hongjoong’s heart was full. it was alive and drumming against his chest. his veins were nearly bursting with the thrum of inspiration.

 

but as soon as his feet starts to carry him to his room, the song in his head starts to lose its volume. when his hand closes around the doorknob, the song breaks apart and loses its tune. when he opens the door, the lyrics start to fall flat.

 

sat on the bottom bunk, seonghwa looks up at him, face illuminated by the glow of his phone. his eyes shift their gaze between hongjoong’s eyes, searching. “nothing?”

 

nothing - just cold, annoying static. at least wooyoung and yeosang were happy. at least the two of them weren’t  _ depressed _ anymore, hongjoong thinks bitterly. he pushes that thought away as soon as it crosses his mind, his hands balling into fists at his side, itching to do himself harm. but he couldn’t, not when seonghwa was here, not when seonghwa was expecting it.

 

instead, he closes the door behind him, and pads over to join his hyung on his bed. he lays his head on his hyung’s lap, and curls into a pathetic ball. he closes his eyes, feeling his hyung’s fingers comb through his hair. later, seonghwa pushes his bear toy at him and, reluctantly, he opens his arms and accepts it. over him, seonghwa lets out a breath, and, with furrowed brows, hongjoong tries to guess if it were out of exasperation or amusement. he figures seonghwa was too kind to be annoyed. seonghwa has always been patient when it comes to him. he tightens his arms around his bear toy.

 

“we need to talk about things,” seonghwa says.

 

hongjoong doesn’t want that. he doesn’t even know if he could do that. still, with a shaky exhale, he replies, “okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *victoria justice meme* mAYbE wE aLL neEd hELp
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com) | [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/lazlozuli) | #atzLOML


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for one short paragraph with violence and blood, half-asleep sex and some shit sex etiquette/past bad sex experiences

mirrors. hongjoong hates mirrors. other than they were a reminder of what he looks like, of what he was and wasn’t, they also remind him of the oddity of human anatomy. all his life, he has never experienced anything like his sudden queasiness regarding it, and it feels so weird, having it now.

 

when he was younger, all he ever takes notice of the body was size and proportions. to be pretty, one must be within certain sizes and be of certain weight and height. and now, at twenty-two, even as he was what one could call  _ ideal, _ he sometimes finds that looking in the mirror - or at anyone else in general - would cause him a great deal of unease. it doesn’t have anything to do with not liking himself, not at all. it was a separate, independent thought in itself.

 

he has always known what he looks like, and yet, he would always stop and study himself. why was getting someone naked such an appealing thing, when all you would ever uncover was a mess of gangly limbs, uneven skin and strange-looking genitalia? he feels disgusted with himself, standing in front of their large bathroom mirror, wanting to peel off the skin that doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. it was as though he was holding himself up by the strings, watching his body from afar, together but not truly one, two separate, functional beings that have no business coexisting.

 

he wants to voice this out, tell someone, but he knows it would be taken in a different way rather than what he meant, because what else could it mean when someone says that they don’t feel like they belong in their own body? what else could  _ hongjoong _ mean?

 

touches were welcome, but the more hongjoong sinks further into his mind, the more aware he was of everything - the way fingertips graze his skin, the way hands slip under his clothes, the almost instantaneous reaction of his own body as goosebumps start to rise, the sudden arching of his back, the curling of his toes, and the uncomfortable tightness in his pants. for the first time ever, he starts to refuse.

 

hongjoong rejects kisses too. he would always want to pull away, when a tongue forces itself into his mouth, when they lick at the roof of his mouth and reduce him to a needy, teased mess.

 

suddenly, he doesn’t want to do anything. it was kind of unfair, especially when it was him who started everything in the first place. he doesn’t want to deny anyone of the comfort they claim only he could bring, but he just couldn’t do it.

 

he hates his body, hates how easy it was to make him writhe, make him fall apart. he hates how he wants to take and take even as he knows it wouldn’t do him any good. he hates how difficult it was to say no, when his mind was screaming for it, begging, when, for so long, there has only ever been one way to pacify the blackened stream of his destructive thoughts. two - he considers another way, but it has been buried under thick, molten desire, locked away in a bulletproof vault that he doesn’t allow himself to open.

 

the top bunk was empty again tonight. hongjoong crawls onto his bed and curls into a ball, heart racing in his chest as he grows more and more aware of his breathing, until it starts to feel like a grueling, repetitive task. he attempts to distract himself by listening to the noise of the crickets outside their window, the roll of rubber tires as cars pass by the street, the distant chatter and laughter down the corridor. his hands were cold.

 

there was someone at the door. he knows who it was already, just by the slow, careful steps of bare feet, the short creak of the door as a hand pushes it slightly more open. in his head, he counts a short one, two, three, and there it was, the soft, almost meek knocks to the door to finally make their presence known. he gets up by then, keeping his head low, meeting his visitor at the door.

 

“not tonight, mingi,” he mumbles, scratching at his nape. “i’m sorry,” he closes the door, but mingi pushes it back open. it sets panic inside him, alive and ablaze, waking him up, his entire body seizing as he only looks at mingi in wide-eyed surprise.

 

“hyung,” mingi starts to speak, but hongjoong starts pushing at the door. mingi resists, keeping his palm flat against it, adding the support of his arm. when the gap starts to widen again, he squeezes himself inside the room. hongjoong’s eyes water.

 

“mingi!” he shouts, frustration bubbling up in his chest. his breath comes out short and quick, not nearly enough. “i  _ told _ you, i don’t want to do anything!” he rubs a hand at his face, eyes screwed shut as he wills himself not to cry right now.

 

“i-i know that, i just, i want to hold you,” mingi explains. hongjoong opens his eyes to look at him, searching his face for the sincerity he knows he won’t believe even if he finds it.

 

well, what other choice does he have?

 

wordlessly, he turns on his heel, coming back to bed, as he listens to mingi’s hurried steps following closely behind him.

 

maybe he was just tired. no, he knows he was tired, no use trying to conceal it behind feigned uncertainty. it was tiring, trying to repress everything like he has been doing, burying his own feelings because all he knows was run away from them until they become background noise. he wants to think of himself as someone else, because it was easier caring if he wasn’t the one burdened, because if it had been someone else, he would want to help. but then what help would that be, if in the end, he still doesn’t view himself with the same importance he puts on others? wouldn’t it be better then, if he just tries to convince himself that he also matters, that his feelings were just as valid, that he wasn’t being a burden to the group just for being human?

 

for all his stupidity and ignorance, he knows everything that was wrong with him. so why was it so hard to change himself for the better?

 

at least, mingi was true to his word. he lies down next to hongjoong, on his stomach, one arm thrown haphazardly over hongjoong’s hips. mingi was nice, he was one of the boys that hongjoong never expected to come to him. he never thought mingi would ever see him that way, but then again, no one really does, he was just their stress relief, after all. but mingi… hongjoong likes to think of mingi as pure.

 

but then again, if you catch your best friend railing your hyung inside your room, you’d probably lose all semblance of purity in your body. hongjoong remembers it clear as day: yunho pulling him harshly into mingi’s and jongho’s room, red in the face, teeth gritted. hongjoong was scandalized, asking why would they fuck in someone else’s room when they have their own, but yunho was pissed beyond reason, answering only when he has thrown hongjoong onto the bottom bunk.

 

“san won’t leave the fucking room,” he hisses, on his knees between hongjoong’s spread legs, cock already out. “i leave every time he asks me to, but he couldn’t  _ possibly _ do that for me, huh?”

 

hongjoong wants to say that his room should be empty right now, but with the way yunho was moving, he doesn’t think the boy would listen. hongjoong shuts up then, lets yunho roughly finger him open, cold with lube, already starting with two. he bites his lip and stops himself from voicing out complaints, not when yunho still wasn’t done muttering to himself about san’s inconsiderate behavior.

 

“get up,” yunho orders, mood a little colder now that he has let out a bit of the steam. hongjoong gets up obediently, and yunho replaces him on the bed, back propped up with the pillows. he suddenly grows meek despite his hand holding his leaking cock at the base, “want hyung like this.”

 

he was so cute like that, hongjoong couldn’t help but tease him a little. “you want hyung?” hongjoong asks, leaning over as if going in for a kiss, and when yunho dazedly stares at his lips, he moves away and laughs. “you want hyung?” he repeats.

 

“yes, want you, please - “

 

“not san?”

 

it was funny, how glazed over yunho’s eyes were, even as they widen in surprise. “sannie? n-no, just want you -  _ ah!” _ hongjoong sinks down unthinkingly, already halfway down, his back arching, mouth falling open at the sudden stretch. yunho’s hips buck purely on instinct, fucking up twice before his mind clears and he finds the self-control to stop the third.

 

“i was worried,” hongjoong says, trying to steady his breathing, trying to relax himself. “i thought you’d rather fuck san after talking so much about him.” he sighs dreamily, smiling a little, closing his eyes as if in thought.  _ “i  _ would fuck him.”

 

“hyung,” yunho warns.

 

“i like sannie,” hongjoong continues, lowering himself, listening to the hitch in yunho’s breath. “i like when sannie gets rough with me.” now fully seated, he rolls his hips, moaning obscenely. he slides a hand from his chest up to his neck. “i like when sannie chokes me. he fucks me so good,” he moans, fucking himself on yunho’s cock, imagining yunho’s jealous expression.

 

“shut up,” yunho grunts. “shut  _ up,” _ there it was. he bucks his hips, large hands around hongjoong’s hips, lifting him up and harshly pulling him down to meet his thrusts. “h-he can’t fuck you like this. can’t fuck you this deep,” and as much as hongjoong wants to continue teasing, his breath was punched out of his lungs, all that comes out of his mouth were a litany of profanities, yunho’s cock filling him up so nicely, brushing the spot inside him his own fingers could never. when he looks down, yunho’s eyes were fixed on him, a furious glare, his mouth curved into a snarl.

 

“put this in your head,” yunho says, easily pulling him off and throwing him on his back. “i don’t care who you fuck,” yunho pushes back in, hiking up hongjoong’s leg, and resumes his pace. “but know that none of them can fuck you like this,” he thrusts in, stilling, cockhead brushing right against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

 

hongjoong lets out a series of harsh pants, toes curling. “please,” he begs, clawing desperately at the sheets below him, tears welling in his eyes,  _ “please.” _ yunho smirks, rolling his hips, giving him another teasing brush. he wants to  _ cry. _

 

“i thought you wanted to fuck san?” yunho asks, head tilted to the side.

 

“no no no, i just - just want you,  _ please,” _ he sobs, fat drops of tears down his face, shamelessly ugly-crying for cock. “don’t want anyone, just you. you fuck me so so good, please, yunho.”

 

yunho smiles at him then, a soft, endearing smile that contrasts his relentless teasing. he cups hongjoong’s cheek delicately, “i like when you act all cute like this.” he pulls out in a long drag, until hongjoong’s hole clenches around nothing, and then he slams back in, hongjoong’s back arching off the bed, head thrown back with a loud cry.

 

it doesn’t register at first, all he could focus on the feeling of yunho inside him, and then he sees it, the door, slightly ajar, a hand on the doorknob. hongjoong looks up, and there he was, mingi, standing completely motionless, eyes not on hongjoong but on his body instead, watching his hyung take cock like he was made for it.

 

“yunho,” hongjoong calls, wanting to alert the other, but yunho takes this as a warning, wrapping his hand around hongjoong’s cock and stroking him, no preamble, fist tight and pace fast. hongjoong helplessly clutches at the sheets, mind blanking out completely, unable to do anything but let yunho taketake _ take, _ forgetting about their voyeur, until yunho does something particularly sinful with his hips that has hongjoong reeling, head thrown back once again. he lets out a loud, drawn out moan, and at the door, he makes eye contact with mingi, whose eyes widen, stepping back and partially hiding himself in the shadows of the hallway.

 

hongjoong doesn’t get to give a warning, the excitement of being caught setting his skin on fire, and he comes all over yunho’s big hand, harder than usual. a few fat drops follow when he thought he was done, spurred by the knowledge that  _ mingi _ was watching.

 

yunho releases his hold around him, reaching between them to shove his hand at hongjoong’s face. “clean up,” he orders. hongjoong obediently licks around his fingers, taking them in his mouth, messily lapping at his own come, tongue circling long fingers, pulling away with an obscene  _ pop! _

 

“fuck,” yunho mutters above him, pace growing desperate. he pulls out, hurriedly, fist tight around himself. “mouth, hyung.”

 

hongjoong scrambles off the bed, dropping on his knees, opening his mouth as yunho follows after him, guiding his dick inside, hand tangled in hongjoong’s hair, and proceeds to fuck his mouth roughly. he doesn’t stop even as he was coming, only slowing down into deep, measured thrusts, milking himself dry. on the last few spurts, he pushes hongjoong’s head down with both of his hands, hongjoong’s throat working furiously around his cock. and then yunho releases him.

 

hongjoong sits on his haunches, coughing, rubbing the tears at his eyes and down his face. when he looks back at the door, he catches mingi move away slowly, and run.

 

he tries to talk to mingi then, wanting to explain, but every time he tries, mingi closes into himself and plays busy. he starts to lock the door behind him at his studio. he keeps his head down during practice, something that hongjoong calls out, but mingi just mumbles silently under his breath and doesn’t listen. he shrugs yunho off too.

 

hongjoong understands that mingi was bothered, but he was  _ very _ annoyed, because they were all supposed to be professionals, and this behavior mingi was showing was far from it. it doesn’t help that his performance was lackluster too. comeback month was nearing and yet mingi wasn’t paying attention, letting himself be thrown off by something he willingly watched until the end. it pisses hongjoong off now that he thought about it.

 

he rubs at his face, frustrated beyond words, and he stomps over to the speakers, pressing pause. he wants to scream. “listen, if anyone here doesn’t want to have a comeback, just get out of my sight and don’t fuck it up for everyone else who does,” he keeps his back turned to them, refusing to make eye contact because he knows he would just crumble and cry out of frustration. that wasn’t what they need right now - they need the firmness, the authority of their leader.

 

and just as he hoped, it was enough push to get mingi back onto his feet. they nail the choreography, and after a few more runs, they decided to call it a day.

 

mingi climbs on his bed the same evening, lightly shaking him awake. “hyung?”

 

hongjoong stirs, groggily blinking up at him, confused and disoriented. “mingi? what are you doing here?”

 

“tell me, hyung, you and yunho, you’re not - “

 

“woah there,” hongjoong holds his hands up in surrender. mingi stops. “wait a second, will you?” he pushes himself up by the heels of his feet, fixing his pillows behind him until they were propped up for him. now considerably more awake, he motions mingi to continue.

 

“you two are dating?” mingi asks in a whisper, flinching when he realizes when it came out too loud, and that their seonghwa-hyung was just above them.

 

“we’re not.”

 

“but - “

 

_ “we’re not.” _

 

mingi stares at him then, squinting, but he seems to be satisfied by the answer anyway, looking weirdly relieved. he smiles. “i’m glad. i mean, i - “ he falters, spluttering, and hongjoong takes pity on him.

 

“let’s just sleep, okay?”

 

“okay.”

 

hongjoong thought that would be the end of that, and mingi would eventually sleep off what was bothering him in the first place, then things would go back to normal. practice would go smoothly, they would have their comeback, and then they would push through with the world tour they had planned. but instead, things start to get progressively worse.

 

apparently, yunho, san, wooyoung, and mingi had a talk about their  _ arrangement.  _ hongjoong doesn’t know what kind of information the three fed mingi, but it was enough to spur a bit of change in him and the way he interacted.

 

mingi crawls onto hongjoong’s bed, shaking him awake, telling him  _ please hyung, i need your help,  _ clothed cock warm and heavy against hongjoong’s thigh.

 

“they said you could help,” mingi says, pulling off hongjoong’s shorts even as he was just waking up. mingi lifts his thigh, gasping. “oh hyung, you’re so cute even here,” he leans down and gives hongjoong’s hole a lick, giggling when it clenches around nothing. “how could i fit my cock inside this cute little thing? ah, you make me so hard.”

 

“mingi, shut up,” hongjoong chastises weakly, still half-asleep, arms tight around his bear plushie. he drifts in and out of sleep then, mostly awake when mingi’s fingers fuck him open, his eyes remaining stubbornly closed, exhausted mind trying to shut itself down but his body keeps reacting strongly to mingi’s ministrations.

 

“so cute,” he hears mingi coo, and then there was a prodding at his hole, the slick head of mingi’s cock teasing the rim, before it slides in with a bit of difficulty. mingi lets out a groan, tight muscle hugging his cockhead. “can’t believe you’re only letting me fuck you now.” he pushes in, and hongjoong was now slowly waking up, the stretch nearly unbearable. mingi did a sloppy job preparing him. he keeps his eyes shut, face scrunching as mingi keeps going, no pause in-between, not even to ask if he was alright. hongjoong holds his breath until mingi bottoms out.

 

mingi fucks him like that, cock fitting just  _ right, _ reaching so well, and if hongjoong wasn’t awake then, he was definitely awake now.

 

he buries his face on his plush toy, moans muffled, embarrassed by the way mingi seems to be so content watching intently, mouth running with the filthiest things hongjoong has ever heard.

 

“look at you,” mingi marvels, desperately fucking into him, thighs tensing beneath hongjoong’s. “so cute, so tiny, but you take cock so well,” he spreads hongjoong’s legs even wider, watching his cock slide in and out of his hyung, breath coming out in short, labored pants. “‘m gonna come, you can take it too, right, hyung? gonna let me come inside you too, right?”

 

hongjoong thrashes underneath him, letting out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine, still keeping his face hidden. “mingi, mingi please,” he begs.

 

“so cute,” mingi moans, hips snapping sharply, pace unforgiving, until he drives his cock deep in one hard thrust, coming. hongjoong’s back bows off the bed, mouth falling open with a gasp as he follows, untouched, between them.

 

at least mingi’s needs were simple enough to sate, but what hongjoong hates about him was that he was constantly talking about it with other people. it makes hongjoong feel used and dirty. he catches them, sometimes, he couldn’t even get a drink of water without overhearing the four boys have a very graphic conversation about his ass.

 

san and wooyoung visit him together. they had only done that once, no more, but he hated it so much that he forbade it. they talked over him all night, snickering between themselves, and they were so _crude_ that hongjoong feels less of a person as he was being manhandled, talked about as if he wasn’t there. he had to put the entire thing to a stop when someone pulled out a phone and demanded he _do_ _something naughty for the group chat._ he was already red in the face, humiliated. he smacked the phone away, yelled at them to get out of his room, and cried until seonghwa barged into the room to pull him up to his feet. he took a long bath, scrubbing his body off of the filth he felt he was caked up in, until he was red all over, until seonghwa wrapped him in a big towel and dragged him out.

 

and now, he feels the exact same way, yet there was nothing to provoke it. the boys have long since apologized and stopped their gross behavior, and seonghwa made sure that the group chat was deleted. the boys also remind him time and time again that they don’t look down on him, even back then. this, hongjoong could believe, because he knows these boys were kind and could never do anything hurtful on purpose.

 

it doesn’t stop making him feel like a toy sometimes. he knows for a fact that a person can want sex and still be loving, but he has a hard time accepting that about himself. there was nothing wrong with having wants, but he couldn’t help but beat himself down. it doesn’t help that it was what his body always craves, and he was so responsive too, so easy to set off. he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

 

hongjoong tries to talk, tries to make conversation instead of giving in to his desires. it was so difficult, approaching his hyung but not touching him. it was so difficult trying to talk about the feelings he has been repressing for years. he stumbles on his words, train of thought everywhere, and yet...

 

seonghwa looks so  _ proud. _

 

it was sad, how proud his hyung was because he was doing the bare minimum. has it really gone so bad?

 

“go on,” seonghwa urges, softly, when hongjoong pauses to stare at him. “i’m listening.”

 

hongjoong blinks hard, looking down at their intertwined hands. he babbles mindlessly for a second, mind all over the place, but then he catches himself. he shuts up, looking back at seonghwa, who only smiles at him. he takes a deep breath. “i’m going to tell you what’s on my mind.” seonghwa nods wordlessly. hongjoong clears his throat. “i-i hate that you’re,” he falters,  averting his gaze, voice fading out. seonghwa squeezes his hand. he continues, “i hate that...you’re so patient with me.”

 

he stares at his lap, vision warped as teardrops form right at his irises. he blinks once and they were gone, now just two wet spots on his shorts. his eyes start to well up more, and he keeps his eyes open, just lets them drop continuously on their own.

 

“of course we’re patient with you,” seonghwa finally replies, thumb soothingly rubbing circles at hongjoong’s hand. “we want to see you happy, joong. we will help you, in any way we can and know.”

 

“you’re too nice to me,” hongjoong sobs.

 

“we’re not, really. we’re only doing our best. we want to help you, okay? will you lets us help you?”

 

hongjoong’s head screams at him to run away, but he doesn’t. he has to face this now, or he will keep running away for the rest of his life. he needs this, he needs this so badly. it was so easy, just a simple  _ yes, _ and he’d get his happily ever after. and yet he still doesn’t answer, hesitating,  _ hesitating _ and for what?

 

“hongjoong?”

 

“i-i just - “

 

“hey, hey,” seonghwa shushes him, releasing his hand to rub at his arms comfortingly. “you don’t have to answer now, okay?”

 

hongjoong slumps in his seat, tears falling down his cheeks in a faster rate. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry. i don’t know - “

 

“don’t apologize. it’s okay,” seonghwa takes him into his arms, guiding his head to the crook of his neck and holds him like that. in a soft voice, seonghwa whispers, “you did well.” hongjoong sobs against his shirt.

 

he was so pathetic, having to be held like a child. how was he supposed to lead everyone now, when he was the one who feels lost, when he leans back for support on the same people he should be looking after? why would  _ the leader _ seek validation from his own members? he wasn’t doing well at all. instead, now that he voiced out some of his concerns, it makes them more  _ real, _ and the more real they were, the more harm they could do.

 

he wishes seonghwa wasn’t so patient. he wishes seonghwa would just snap one day, kick the door open and stomp to the desk drawers, pull them out one by one until he gets to the bottommost one where the pens and compacts were hidden. he wishes seonghwa would just pick him up by the collar, throw him onto his desk and drag the glass shard down his entire arm, watch the blood coat his fingers, push his thumb and index finger into the wound, exploring, prodding, finding the big, angry vein, and pulling it out of him.

 

instead, seonghwa takes his arm and brushes his lips against the faint, white scars. seonghwa gently lays him down the bed, and for a moment, a jolt of anticipation passes through him, but seonghwa only pulls the blanket over them, snuggling close.

 

“sleep,” he says.

 

hongjoong closes his eyes obediently, but he stays awake for hours.

 

running away wouldn’t do him any good. he could outrun confrontation any time, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. it would prolong it, and in time, when its tree has planted its roots, it would grow into a worse problem. he needs to get that in his head. he needs to stop being so afraid. he needs to stop telling himself what he does and don’t deserve. he needs to let himself receive the help he asked for and the ones he didn’t.

 

it sounds so easy, but he knows it was far from it, with how stubborn he could be, with how bad his moods could be. he knows what would happen if he accepts help - he would just end up being vulnerable all the time,  _ expecting _ help but never getting better. oh it was so much easier just repressing everything, where all  _ how are you’s _ were answered by  _ i’m fine’s.  _ less work for everyone involved, but it weighs down his heart, and he knows it wasn’t healthy. he couldn’t do it forever. it would kill him. it could kill him.

 

and he doesn’t want to die.

 

somehow, it feels like such a big revelation, admitting that to himself. it feels so freeing, so relieving, as if a huge weight was taken off his shoulders.  _ he doesn’t want to die.  _ and yet, it feels  like such a shameful thing too. what would happen then? what would the others think? if he doesn’t want to die, then that must mean that there was nothing wrong with him. that must mean he doesn’t need any help. would that prove their point then, that he only does all of this for attention? but doesn’t he already? then again, hasn’t he already established that there was nothing wrong with crying for attention?

 

if he just talked to people like a normal person, he wouldn’t have this problem. he hates it, he hates himself, how he couldn’t even do this one simple thing. he envies the others, how easy things seems to be for them. they never have any doubts in their heads whenever they come seeking for advice, no worries whenever they need someone to listen to their long rants.

 

hongjoong just watches them, how readily they open their heart to others when they know things were too much to handle. he thinks,  _ how do they do that? _ how could they make it look so easy? it  _ should _ be easy. he just needs to talk,  _ hongjoong what is wrong with you? _

 

the dorm was always so fucking noisy. someone was always screaming at the top of their lungs, someone was already singing, the tv was always on too high, there was always running down the corridor, someone’s speaker was always on, and there was always  _ chatter. _

 

it feels so fucking lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe i’d have a seonghwa in my life if i just don’t push everyone away because i know i’ll just annoy them with rants on my nonexistent problems and scare them away with the toxicity of my relentless sadness and suicidal tendencies 😤😤
> 
> (but mostly it’s bc no one ever gets past my awkward attempts at conversation and they just give up bc i’m the most unapproachable dumbass in the whole entire world...and also i’m boring and have zero personality. WANTING TO DIE ISNT A PERSONALITY, LARISA, GET YOURSELF TOGETHER)
> 
> (replace seonghwa with friend* and it’s still true!!!! wow!!!)
> 
> *insert victoria justice meme*
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.lazlowrites.tumblr.com) | [twt](https://mobile.twitter.com/lazlozuli)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for more bad sex experiences and the boys being problematic(?)
> 
> this chap is just hongjoong’s very confusing internal monologue. it’s a bit too much, because a lot of things get addressed at the same time but i thought it kind of made sense because i’m sure everyone has unorganized thoughts. i hope it made sense in a way that was understandable though. this is also a terrible attempt to try to tie things together. ugh.
> 
> anyway enjoy or whatever.

**_fuck._ **

 

hongjoong wants to… oh, he wants _so many_ things, all at once — he was swimming in this… this _desire_ to do so much —

 

he wants to claw his eyes out. it sounds to _easy_ and _god,_ he wants nothing more than to just — shove all the stuff on his desk, just shove them off with his arm, tear out all the cords, get the scissors, just cut them, _cut them._ and then cut _himself,_ because that was what he does best, right? couldn’t get anything right. _dumbass._ this was the only thing he was good for — pure _entertainment,_ a laughing stock. drag the sharp end of the scissors across his wrist, but the scared, weak thing could never apply enough pressure.

 

not enough, never enough — that was his brand.

 

kind of funny, wasn’t it? couldn’t do anything right. wasn’t even good enough for the only thing he could do right, the only thing he was _made_ to do.

 

what would his mother think? what would the boys think?

 

does it matter?

 

wouldn’t it be funny, if this gets to the news? his face, everywhere, and then he’d be dubbed _that one crazy idol who harms himself._ it was kind of funny. it was really funny. it was so funny, that hongjoong forces out a laugh amidst the tears steadily rolling down his face.

 

what was he doing with his life? has it really gotten this bad?

 

it hurts trying to laugh like this. it doesn’t really tickle him that much, to be honest. he wants it to be funny though. if it were funny, then it wasn’t serious. maybe things don’t have to be funny to not be serious. this wasn’t serious at all.

 

there was so much blood, but it wasn’t enough. no no no. it looks like a lot, but it wasn’t. there were just lots of stains, lightning down his arms and legs, sticky and drying. even the glass shard was sticky. sad. _sad._

 

he still wants to claw his eyes out. ah. he wants to shove his things off his desk, snap his laptop in half, scratch at the screen, push his knee into it, run his foot _through_ it —

 

he doesn’t. he sits listlessly on his sad little swivel chair, staring blankly at his computer screen. it stares back at him, unblinking, uncaring, still stuck on the producer’s email.

 

honestly, _fuck_ the songs. who cares? _who cares?_ he doesn’t want to hear it, the constant _sorry, hongjoong_ or the _this is great, however —_

 

shut up. _shut up. i get it,_ ** _i get it._**

 

_thank you for taking the time …_

 

_it really was great working with you …_

 

_you did a fantastic job …_

 

**_unfortunately,_ **

 

unfortunately, his work was still not what they were looking for. _unfortunately, you are still not good enough. unfortunately, you are still a piece of shit. unfortunately —_

 

c’est la vie, or whatever people say. life sucks, get over it. _you’re not special._

 

he works all the time. he works during work hours, even during his days off, during the fucking _night._ he skips his meals and doesn’t sleep for days just for output. he works hard but there was never a good result. he hates himself, but he likes everything he submits. he doesn’t always put out a nice song, but he could, and he knows that. he doesn’t know what the problem was, so he keeps backtracking, looking too closely at everything to see where he went wrong, until the line between constructive criticism and self-hatred melted and blurred under his gaze.

 

in the mornings, he sits on the dinner table like a good boy _(sannie’s good boy, so good)_ and eats whatever was on his plate despite his stomach’s relentless complaining. _i can’t take it, hongjoong,_ it tells him, _i don’t wanna. i’m tired._ well i’m tired too. you’re not special.

 

was it weird to argue with your own mind? was it weird to argue with your own mind, guising itself as a different part of you body?

 

funny.

 

he tells the boys not to wait for him to finish. he could clean up by himself. they leave, of course they do. they just up and skip away, rainbows popping up on every step, _giggling_ at each other. _happy._ it wasn’t that they didn’t care, _what the fuck, hongjoong,_ it was just that their life didn’t revolve around him. it wasn’t their _job_ to make sure he was doing well. they couldn’t read minds either. _hongjoong, shut up._

 

it was always such a task to eat when your brain’s all mussed up, he’d always take the entire day trying to finish his meals. at least he has something to eat, right? some people don’t even have that privilege, some don’t even have homes —

 

his feelings were valid. his struggles were valid. they were. _god_ they were.

 

_shut up._

 

in the evenings, he slips under seonghwa’s covers and forces the other to cuddle him to sleep. they spoon like always, seonghwa a comforting, grounding presence behind him, like always.

 

it makes him want to die. god, he wants to die. it sounds so _easy._ just drink a bunch of pills, or — or _bleach,_ they have some in the kitchen. it was so _easy,_ everything he needs were right here, waiting for him, and yet, what does he do? _absolutely nothing._ well, it makes sense now, doesn’t it? that was what he was good for: _nothing._ only doing what he was made to do.

 

 _shut up._ no, he needs to talk. this was unhealthy — bottling it all up. he needs to talk to someone, anyone, _please_ —

 

who was there? who would listen to him, so weak and fragile, so lost, so stupid?

 

_it was so easy —_

 

_— calm down._

 

“you’re not weak, you’re strong. you’re the strongest person i know, because even if you don’t want to be here, you still hold on,” seonghwa says.

 

except he doesn’t. the room was silent. seonghwa was already asleep. hongjoong made all that up in his head, because it was what he wants to hear. no one ever applauds him for continuing to live. probably because they all know he doesn’t have the guts to actually do it.

 

he wasn’t sick. he doesn’t deserve help. even if he was, why would he need help? it wasn’t like he was going to suddenly grow the balls to do something about himself. he could mess up his limbs as much as he wants, but he would never be able to inflict permanent damage.

 

all these thoughts — it was nice to finally have your brain slow down after overheating. oftentimes, hongjoong gets too far up in his head. it wasn’t surprising, he has even mentioned it to the boys, but there were just times where his thoughts would come all jumbled up together.

 

this calm, this quiet was greatly appreciated. it gives him some space to think _clearly._ he doesn’t mean everything he had thought. this time, he gets to be level-headed and fair, _smart,_ and not very ignorant.

 

no, he doesn’t want to die. it wasn’t easy either. he was neither weak nor strong for trying. like everyone else, he deserves a shot at life, deserves to get help and get better. he doesn’t even need to be sick to get help, but he has a… _thing_ that needs guidance, improvement. talking to people would help. hongjoong could do that, easy. he talks to seonghwa sometimes. he just needs to push himself to do it more often. simple, and easy. he could do it.

 

he also needs to cut off all the sex he has in place of seeking comfort. that wasn’t healthy either, and it also wasn’t fair of him to take out his problems like that to the boys, wasn’t fair to only give that option when all they wanted and needed was to be lent someone’s shoulder. it wasn’t fair to anyone. he at least deserves to get support from his friends, and his friends deserves to receive the same amount of support as well.

 

does all of that even mean anything to him? would he really push through with all of that? probably not, but he really wants to get better, so he should at least try.

 

sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to really die. what would his mother think? and the boys? how long would they mourn? would they? would it come as a surprise, or would it come out more as a sigh of relief, a weight gladly taken off their shoulders? does it matter? it doesn’t.

 

when he dies, he dies. everything would just fade to black, no more second chances, no more glimpses of anything. he would just be nothing. he wouldn’t float away in air, overlooking his loved ones like a restless angel. things like that wouldn’t happen. he wouldn’t get to see them mourn, wouldn’t get to watch his own funeral.

 

he tells himself all of that, because he knows it was a harmful mindset, to off oneself because they want to see what kind of impact it would have on others, because they want the people around them to hurt like they do. but once you die, you don’t come back. you don’t get to see the pain you inflict, the love you hope people will confess as they make long, dramatic eulogies.

 

the boys would probably cry. he knows they love him. there was no point in lying to himself. if he wants to get better, he needs to open his eyes, and accept the world around him.

 

they love him, and they do little things for him to make the pain a little better. they get bummed when things don’t work out. he sees it all.

 

when hongjoong was in one of his moods, wooyoung goes full boyfriend mode (at least that was what the kids call it): he goes out to buy snacks, sometimes he even cooks, and then he’d put on a movie for them to watch while eating. he’d cater to whatever hongjoong craves at the moment. he gets a bit impatient at times, but that was because he would find things too confusing, especially when hongjoong blinks both green and red lights at him. by then, he’d try to make hongjoong talk about it, which he usually fails at because hongjoong still couldn’t function like a normal human being.

 

hongjoong likes it best when wooyoung licks into his mouth, but that was something he doesn’t want to think about when he was forcefully depriving himself of intimacy for the sake of his mental health.

 

san was… sweet, too. things were admittedly very tense between them at the beginning. he doesn’t understand, but he tries to. he buries his own beliefs away and adapts for hongjoong. the bare minimum, seonghwa would say with a scoff, but hongjoong appreciates the effort nevertheless. at least the boy cares. they grew a bit awkward at first, fumbling around now that they don’t constantly have their hands all over each other, but they got around it. he was quieter, gentler, and despite being one of the cuddliest, touchiest members, he would never initiate physical contact unless hongjoong requests or does it himself. san was very firm in his refusals too. hongjoong appreciates that a lot, no matter how much he hates san in the heat of the moment.

 

yunho was the same way. well, they were roommates after all, and yunho seems to share the same views as san. not the ignorant _just do it vertically_ stuff, but the _no means no and i’m doing this for the greater good_ stuff. hongjoong appreciates him too. they hang out from time to time, and after a while, hongjoong allows himself to call them their little dates. he stops feeling terrible about it…most of the time. he still feels kind of bad, but that was just a symptom of a sudden turn in his mood. he likes yunho a lot, and his dick too, but they don’t do that anymore. he misses it, but yunho has been so especially radiant and happy when they stopped, that hongjoong just forcefully stomps away his desires so he doesn’t ruin everything. they still kiss, but yunho never wants to go any further.

 

“don’t you miss it?” hongjoong asks one night, legs tangled with yunho’s as they stare blankly at the top bunk.

 

“i do,” yunho admits, “but i just, i’m afraid.”

 

“of?”

 

“things going bad again,” yunho mumbles, turning his body so that he was facing the other, and promptly nuzzles his face at the top of hongjoong’s head. his voice was muffled, “i don’t want to hurt you again.”

 

yunho gets aggressive at times. he leaves very prominent marks on hongjoong’s skin that takes a long time to heal. every time they sleep together, hongjoong would always end up with a limp. yunho gets possessive, too. it used to be a game — rile yunho up, make him angry, make him crazy jealous, get the prize — until yunho put both of his hands around hongjoong’s neck one night, hips snapping angrily, and hongjoong couldn’t _breathe._ he was clawing at yunho’s hands, his arms, _everywhere,_ and his vision was —

 

it was scary. it scared them both. yunho still doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness, and hongjoong still thinks it was all his fault. his throat turned dark, swollen, violet and _black_ in the shape of handprints. yunho still cries about it sometimes. hongjoong still feels a phantom pressure around his neck sometimes.

 

he starts to flinch when someone tries to put their hands on him.

 

seonghwa flipped his shit, for the lack of better word; _everyone_ did. that was where they all drew the line, and agreed things should be stopped, or at least put on hold for a while. it wasn’t resolved easily though. they had a huge fight about it — there was lots of crying, blaming, _yelling,_ and cursing. hongjoong felt responsible, because he knew this entire thing had been his doing, but no one blamed him. he hated that. he hated that they treated him like a fragile, porcelain doll because they were afraid he would break. but that doesn’t matter now, does it?

 

they argued. san stood in front of yunho.

 

“i was the one who got him into this in the first place,” he said, “and- and i do things like that too. he- he just didn’t know—“

 

“he’s a grown man,” wooyoung yelled. he was getting right at san’s face. hongjoong had never seen them fight like that before. “he knows what’s right and wrong. and look at hyung,” he turned around, gesturing at hongjoong, who flinched and tried to hide from the attention. “he looks like he almost fucking died. look at how bad that is. jesus.”

 

san clicked his tongue and shoved at wooyoung’s chest. “oh fuck off, okay? you don’t get it. and it’s not like you don’t slap hyung around when you fuck him.” they continued yelling, ignoring seonghwa’s angry _watch your mouth._

 

it felt like the end of the world, back then. only san was willing to side with yunho. mingi just sat across his best friend, and they stared at each other, yunho seemingly trying to plead with his glassy eyes, while mingi remained unblinking.

 

and then the anger simmered down into low-heat disappointment. they settled to an agreement.

 

_let’s stop this._

 

and then...

 

_or- or at least be careful, okay?_

 

it was kind of stupid, looking back. everyone was playing saint when hongjoong knows very well they only see him as a fucktoy. but does it matter, when he chose to be one himself?

 

it does.

 

_does it?_

 

do they realize their wrongdoings only after something terrible has happened?

 

but they were past that. maybe they could talk about that some other time. not now, when hongjoong still feels the filth roll down between his thighs, the press of fingers around his throat, when he still sees the flash of a camera.

 

he just wants to be happy. why was that such a hard thing to achieve? he keeps unknowingly driving himself off a cliff. he wants to think happy thoughts, but they keep deviating into the opposite direction.

 

what were some good thoughts?

 

well, he started talking about his feelings. it was hard, and sometimes he only gets a few words out before he gives up, but progress was still progress, right? at least he was trying, and he knows trying and doing were different things, but it counts for _something._ small victories deserve to be celebrated too.

 

he also cleared up his confusion about yeosang. back when he and seonghwa had a brief falling apart, seonghwa had started confiding in yeosang. hongjoong thought they were fucking and god, was he so jealous and angry. he wanted seonghwa to himself, he didn’t want to share, and what did the two keep whispering about? it drove him crazy, thinking about how seonghwa must be selling his secrets to yeosang, how the two must be making fun of him and talking smack right behind him.

 

so he started trying to get close to yeosang — give him snacks, ask about his day, offer an ear when the boy seemed stressed or sad about something. yeosang read it as interest. it went down from there.

 

and god, _they were never a thing,_ yeosang and seonghwa.

 

“he went to me because he thought you and mingi had something going on,” yeosang explained, looking disinterested as he typed something on his phone. “he said you didn’t need him anymore, since you have mingi.”

 

_oh._

 

yeosang looked up then, watching the realization play on hongjoong’s face. he shook his head, letting out a sigh, and pushed hongjoong’s thighs apart as he fitted himself between them.

 

he was always so eager to please. he never hesitated to go down on his knees for his hongjoong-hyung, always opened his mouth and lent his hands when he sees the telltale signs of unpleasant emotions.

 

“you know you don’t have to do these things for me,” hongjoong said, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he watched yeosang swallow him whole. _“fuck._ you really- really don’t have to.”

 

talking to yeosang was easy. when hongjoong said that, when he kept repeating that, yeosang listened. he stopped giving and instead, he started to _take._ these things he did, they became something he did for himself, and hongjoong lets him.

 

what difference did it make? nothing, but ah, it was the thought that counts, right?

 

hongjoong thinks about them a lot — himself, everyone, and the things they used to do behind closed doors. he used to only think about the good things, the kind words and the gentle touches, but he needs to address the other side of things too. none of them were angels, none of them were perfect. that was fine, but he doesn’t want to turn a blind eye to that. he doesn’t want to put all the blame on them either.

 

what yunho did wasn’t fine, but hongjoong also brought it upon himself, because they were doing things without thinking, without properly talking about them first. he could say the same about the other boys, and maybe that was primarily his own fault, because he always expressed distaste for communication. _still,_ the boys were responsible adults, like wooyoung had said, and they all still had a say in things.

 

it still makes him so _angry_ sometimes. would you believe it, the kind, gentle, happy yunho, doing something so despicable? so angry, so forceful and rough —

 

“i didn’t know,” the boy sobbed, fat tears rolling down his face. hongjoong didn’t know if he should feel bad or be enraged. “san said it was fine. and hyung always liked it.”

 

and enraged he was. he wanted to scream, _how_ dare _you?_

 

it was so _messy —_ the way the attention turned back to san again. _this is your fault,_ everyone was screaming. _you started this._ no one turned to hongjoong-hyung because he was the poor, delicate, defenseless flower caught in a storm.

 

no one wants to hold him accountable for his actions because he was supposed to be the lost one. _he hates it. he hates —_

 

he doesn’t want to hate them, but he knows it was okay to.

 

his feelings were valid.

 

his struggles were valid.

 

it was okay to blame them, and it was also okay to blame himself.

 

the entire thing was spun out of emotions — some buried, some out on display, some forgotten and some constantly remembered — and it all boils down to one problem, one they keep trying to ignore because _it would hurt hongjoong-hyung,_ because _hongjoong-hyung said he doesn’t want to._ somewhere along the way, everyone has forgotten how to view things objectively, to put their mind over their heart.

 

“i’m sorry,” yunho mumbled. “i’m just- i’m shit. i’m stupid. i don’t know anything. i’m sorry—”

 

“try again,” hongjoong replied. he kept his gaze on yunho despite all the eyes he felt fall on him. he tried not to feel bad, tried hard to bury it under the belief that he was allowed to be angry too. “that didn’t sound sincere.” it was because it wasn’t. that was barely even an apology — that was guilt-tripping. what did yunho want, forgiveness, or pity? _try again._ hongjoong deserved a proper apology. he knew that much. and he was going to get it.

 

yunho only blinked up at him. “what- what do you want me to say?” he wasn’t mad, just very confused.

 

 _the bare minimum,_ echoed in hongjoong’s head.

 

“figure it out yourself,” and with that, hongjoong left. he told himself he was rightfully upset, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being unfair.

 

that night, he crawled under the covers next to yunho.

 

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, lips against the other’s. “you didn’t deserve that.”

 

yunho shook his head. he put his hands on hongjoong’s shoulders to push him away. “hyung, no, i hurt you—“

 

“doesn’t mean i should snap at you like that,” hongjoong replied, and leaned close again. yunho’s face shined with tears. hongjoong swallowed up his sobs and kissed him hungrily, to make up for- for—

 

for?

 

everything?

 

_what happened to being rightfully angry?_

 

he feels so bad though, seeing yunho pitifully curl in on himself.

 

 _he was just a kid._ they were just a year apart.

 

_he just needs some guidance._

 

yunho never gets over it. he cries about it still. he keeps making excessive efforts to _make things right._ nothing feels right these days.

 

the boys keep whispering behind hongjoong’s back. he wants to shout, _just tell me what you want to say, right in my face._ but he never really had the courage to do anything. he just sits down and plays deaf.

 

he feels angry, unfairly so. _what happened to being rightfully angry?_ what happened to everything? right when he was starting to get control, it suddenly slips away from his hands. was it always going to be like this? was he always going to back down, and let his emotions get the best of him?

 

_it would be so much easier to just give up —_

 

the boys stop whispering. then they sit and make themselves comfortable around hongjoong like they weren’t just talking about him. he balls his hands into fists. he could feel seonghwa’s eyes on him.

 

“you’re tense,” the older says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for suicidal thoughts and self-harm

sniffles, sobs, shoulders shaking lightly, hands gripping on the edge of the desk until his knuckles turn white.

 

the first time hongjoong has seen seonghwa cry, it was quieter, calmer. it was just a gentle descend of tears, a single sniff and a quick brush of sleeves over the eyes. he had kept his gaze on the floor, embarrassed, and only looked up to flash a small smile.

 

“i’m fine,” seonghwa said, but his voice chose that moment to break. he cringed. “sorry. i’m not, i guess.”

 

later, during their time together as trainees, hongjoong learns that seonghwa only cries in the comfort of their shared room—a place he feels most comfortable in, where he was mostly only surrounded by the quiet, where he lets his guard down, a place that allows him to finally let loose and forget about pressure and responsibilities. hongjoong happens to share that place with him, unwillingly granted permission to witness things too close, too private.

 

hongjoong spends too much time anxiously thinking, wondering, if maybe seonghwa would ever happily welcome him in that small bubble of comfort, allow him to hear without hesitation or any second thoughts. some day, hopefully, seonghwa would finally open his heart and let himself admit that he was not okay.

 

perhaps, if things ever become alright.

 

“this will pass,” seonghwa mumbled. hongjoong remained standing at the doorway, hand frozen at the doorknob while he wordlessly stared at the other.

 

they were young, so much younger that time. hongjoong didn’t know better. he asked, he pried,  _ hyung, you can tell me anything.  _ they were complete strangers back then, just two boys who happened to sleep in the same room, two boys who happened to work for the same company, two boys hoping to debut in the same group.

 

“i don’t want to talk about it,” seonghwa said, and with that, his hands left their white-knuckled grip on their desk and he marched out of the room, out of his only safe place, the one that hongjoong unknowingly robbed him of.

 

hongjoong never thought of it much at that time. maybe seonghwa-hyung just needed some space, he reasoned, and besides, what sane person would trust a stranger so easily? they barely knew each other apart from what they always see in the studio and in the practice room, in the four corners of their room.

 

some time later, not even after a full year, not even a month, was the second time seonghwa cried in hongjoong’s presence. despite not seeing the other from where he lied on his own bed, hongjoong had imagined seonghwa’s shoulders trembling as he freely let out sobs. it was scary, hearing it, because he sounded so pained, so miserable, like whatever it was that he was crying over physically pained him.  _ did it? _ hongjoong wanted nothing but to get up and reach out to him, envelope him in a hug, provide him the comfort he so obviously needed but refused.

 

“hyung?”  _ please tell me what’s wrong. _

 

a sharp intake of breath. “it’s nothing.” sniff. “go to sleep, hongjoong.”

 

hongjoong got up, blankets shuffling too loud in the silence of the night, and climbed halfway up to the top bunk. “please talk to me,” he whispered, eyes pleadingly wide as he looked at the other.

 

nothing separated them but the last two steps of the ladder, and the strip of moonlight that cut through the empty space between them, on the bed.

 

“it’s nothing,” seonghwa replied, stubborn, back turned to him. and then, softer this time, his head turning just the slightest bit, “nothing you should worry about.”

 

it didn’t sound like nothing. and, well, hongjoong worried a lot. he lingered, hesitating, thinking. he weighed down his options. there wasn’t much to choose from in the first place, it was either annoy seonghwa or leave him alone, and hongjoong always wanted to be the helpful person.

 

his teachers at school used to say that it was going to be his doom. his desire to be an asset, to be an important character in other people’s lives.

 

“hongjoong, you’re smart and talented,” one had said. “but you need to remember that you come first before others. once you’re out of school, it’s one person for themselves.”

 

the same people that taught him to share and be kind told him to be selfish. but it wasn’t like him to be selfish. he just didn’t want to see people be so forlorn. he couldn’t stand it.

 

_ hero complex? _

 

he did it for himself, all of that effort to make someone else smile, to make their day better. he liked when people were happy, but he liked it even more if he was the reason why.

 

would it be surprising then, that he began to skip class in order to work, to be able to provide for his group better? not because he wanted them to succeed, and he did want that, but somewhere hidden in the back of his mind, he did things because he wanted the boys to think that they had such a capable, loving leader.

 

his desk at class would almost always be empty that time, but when his mother was called to the principal’s office, the big man only said, “let him be. he knows what he wants, he knows where he was needed.”

 

_ and wherever he was needed, he goes. _

 

his mother had fumed, angry, and understandably so. what kind of principal would let his students skip school? but she cooled down eventually, on the drive home. when they had finally stepped inside, footwear being put away before they waltz into the living room, she spoke to him.

 

“i’m not going to control your life anymore,” she said, eyes on their shoe rack. “you’re old enough to make your own decisions. you know yourself better. just make sure you get something out of what you’re doing.” and then she proceeded to head inside.

 

so he took the last two steps, and crawled next to seonghwa, the bed being admittedly too cramped for two people. seonghwa finally turned, wide eyed, before he squinted them into thin, angry slits.

 

“what are you doing?” he asked, not moving to make space.

 

“i just want you to talk to me.”

 

“there’s nothing to talk about.”

 

hongjoong crouched on the bed, the hair on top of his head flattening as it touches the ceiling. he hugged his knees to his chest and tried not to sigh. seonghwa held his gaze, torso twisting as he turned his upper half to face hongjoong, eyes sharp, mouth pressed together into a frown.

 

hongjoong tried to bite back his whine, but it was useless, when he was as upset as he was that time. it just happens, sometimes. like a child, he went, “i just want to help.”

 

a moment of silence.

 

seonghwa seemed to be stunned at something, eyes widening once again, lips falling open by just the tiniest bit.

 

“are you—are you pouting?”

 

“what? no!”

 

defensive, hongjoong hugged his knees tighter to his chest. maybe he  _ was _ pouting. he furrowed his brows and tucked his lips between his teeth. seonghwa shook his head.

 

“come here,” seonghwa ordered, shifting on the bed until he lied on his opposite side, whole body now facing the younger. “if you really want to help, cuddle with me.”

 

hongjoong beamed.

 

he didn’t know why, but at that moment, he believed that all of life’s problems were solved. they went to sleep and woke up well-rested. they were productive and happy. the day went smoothly.

 

throughout their time together as a group, he had only seen seonghwa cry a handful of times, only as many as his fingers. sometimes, he thinks, how often does hyung cry? does he cry somewhere else, outside the safety, the privacy of their shared room? does he cry onto someone else’s shoulder? hongjoong briefly thinks of yeosang,  _ pretty yeosang, _ and couldn’t help the jolt of jealousy that stabs through him.

 

selfishly, hongjoong wishes he knows, because he wants to be a part of those moments, wants to be the one to make things right. he wants to feel like he matters to someone.

 

during the nights when he was flooded with shame and denial, he forces himself to believe that he only thinks that way because he knows what it was like to feel miserable and alone, because he doesn’t want his hyung to feel the same way.

 

_ why do these memories, these thoughts matter? _

 

would it be a reach, to say that things started from them? nothing but a small, innocuous sprout, catching water, until it grew taller and taller, and so many problems started to branch out from it. but when things continue to turn from bad to worse, does it matter?

 

then again, hongjoong really wasn’t someone you should listen to regarding things that does or doesn’t matter.

 

_ why does he keep trying to look back and remember? _

 

and…

 

_ why does he keep asking himself questions when he knows all the answers? _

 

he doesn’t like it, when the boys tiptoe around him. but what was there for him to do? he brought it upon himself. they may have hurt him, but he was the one who offered himself to be pushed around and toyed with in the first place.  _ but does that justify their participation in such things? _

 

in his mad scramble for finding someone to blame and looking for the root of all evil, he neglects thinking of an optimal solution. he gets too far up in his head sometimes, he knows, but has he ever done anything about it?

 

no.

 

when hongjoong opens his eyes, it was already dark outside. his shoulders and back feel infinitely better than they were just a few hours ago. he feels overall well-rested. beside him, seonghwa types furiously on his phone, big blocks of messages making up a conversation. their sides were warm from how close they were pressed together.

 

hongjoong yawns, turning to his side. he catches seonghwa close the messaging app and switches to twitter, throwing him a glance.

 

“hi,” hongjoong croaks, eyes still heavy, body still begging for more sleep. he nuzzles his face on the crook of seonghwa’s neck, and closes his eyes.

 

“sleep some more,” seonghwa whispers. the light behind hongjoong’s eyes dims and the lock of a phone rings through his ears, then a hand combs through his hair.

 

they were hiding something.

 

hongjoong wasn’t blind. he wishes they’d stop treating him like he was. he wants to tell them that, but he doesn’t. he wants to tell them to stop acting nice and just return to how things were before, but he doesn’t. instead, he does what he does best—act difficult.

 

he doesn’t bring anything up, and they don’t ask. they skirt around him like idle maids waiting for a call. when they ask him if he was alright, he pushes them away.

 

maybe he was mad. that was okay, right? his anger was justified. he has spent way too much time blaming himself anyway. he could spare a few minutes to boil in his anger before he goes back to directing it all to himself. in a twisted way, it feels like he was treating himself. think of it as a break. he’ll go back soon anyway. he knows that, knows himself well enough that good things would always come to an end.

 

hongjoong thinks, maybe that was why he couldn’t just give up, because his life, his existence was never a good thing in the first place.

 

he doesn’t dwell on it too much. he pushes the thought away and focuses on getting to work. nothing else matters. his group should always come first.

 

_ even if they put him last. _

 

do they, though? they were all trying to change and make up for their mistakes, wasn’t that enough? was it only hongjoong who was wrong this time, for not cooperating and accepting their wordless apologies?

 

_ or was he unfairly blaming himself again? _

 

none of them ever drew the line, so now they don’t know if they were crossing it.

 

would it be much easier if they had just talked? but they already talked, didn’t they? that was why they were in this mess in the first place. they talked and everything fell apart, or maybe that was just hongjoong. everyone else seem to be getting along well, all their whispering and elbowing at each other’s sides.

 

they were probably bonding over hongjoong’s helplessness, probably even planning to do something about it. it was such a pitiful thing, after all, to have someone like him to lead their group. weak, helpless, lost sheep—what good could he possibly bring?

 

_ just kick him out. tell it to his face. stop pretending. _

 

perhaps their plan was to draw him out like this—drive him crazy with how much whispering they were doing, make him leave on his own accord. their hands would be clean then, because they didn’t do anything, because he made the choice by himself.

 

maybe that was what he should have done long ago. maybe he shouldn’t have went here. maybe he should have never started dreaming.

 

he doesn’t belong here, and he feels it more and more every passing moment. every time the boys huddle around, every time their arms brush as they pass each other, every time they give him space when he tells them to leave him alone.

 

he just wants to stop hurting. he just wants to stop hurting himself, and dragging people down with him.

 

they don’t deserve this. they never would have done anything wrong had he just left them alone.

 

_ what happened to being rightfully angry? _

 

he doesn’t know who he was being unfair to at this point.

 

_ why does it hurt so much? _

 

sometimes, hongjoong cries. he doesn’t cry very often—it was something seonghwa always pointed out.

 

“don’t keep it in,” seonghwa would say, but when has hongjoong ever listened?

 

in his most deprived moments, hongjoong cries, not because he wants to, but because it just couldn’t stop coming out, because the dam has been opened and he couldn’t keep it all in. he hates it. he feels completely helpless, and ashamed for being so.

 

he used to think, this was fine. what was bad for the heart was good for the art, right? right?

 

maybe, for some people. but for him, it just makes him claw at his throat and wish for death.

 

_ just talk to them. just talk. just ta _ **_lk._ **

 

it was so easy. but he couldn’t. does he deserve it? and who was he to determine what he does and doesn’t deserve? who does he listen to, himself or the boys? was he being harsh to himself or were they being kind out of pity?  _ where was the line? _

 

_ wouldn’t it be so much easier if he just asked? _

 

a cycle, a vicious cycle. he wants to die. he was so tired, beyond the exhaustion that work could ever bring. he loves his job, he really does. there wasn’t any problem with that, it was all just him. since he was the problem, wouldn’t everything be fine if he just—if he just—

 

wouldn’t everything be fine by then?

 

he tries to think of the consequences that would bring. the boys would cry. his parents would cry—

 

but what does he care? why would it matter to him, when he would already be dead by then?

 

_ stop.  _ **_stop._ **

 

_ he doesn’t want this. _

 

_ please. _

 

he just wants to fucking talk. why was that so hard? why does he have to keep making things hard for himself?

 

they were all literally right fucking  _ there.  _ just reach out, tap them on the shoulder. why does it have to be so difficult?

 

_ leave him be. _

 

why does he have to be cryptic and leave hints everywhere? would the boys understand what he was trying to convey if he sends them lingering stares? would they understand that his refusal to hang out with them in favor of doing work when all he does was stare blankly at his computer screen meant that he wanted attention?

 

of course they fucking don’t.

 

_ just please, help. _

 

he just needs to talk. just tell them. even just a  _ text. _ anything.  _ please— _

 

everyone was frustrated. it makes him  _ laugh.  _ look at these fools, trying to figure him out. he was a goddamn puzzle. he couldn’t even fully figure himself out.

 

he watches, dazedly, as seonghwa rubs a hand down his face in frustration.

 

“why are you so difficult,” seonghwa breathes, harshly, his eyes shining with wetness.

 

hongjoong laughs, because at that moment, everything was funny to him, amusing. seonghwa just admitted to him being difficult. seonghwa shed his understanding facade and finally told the truth. everyone rejoice! let hongjoong be even more stubbornly difficult from now on!

 

seonghwa gapes. “is this funny to you?”

 

the tears come rushing back. hongjoong shakes his head, trying to will his laughter away, but it keeps bubbling up to his throat. he keeps laughing. “i’m sorry. i don’t know why i’m laughing.”

 

“is this a game to you?”

 

“no—i swear.”

 

he officially have lost it. he continues laughing, watching as seonghwa begins to look increasingly frustrated at each passing second. he looks as though he was about to punch the wall.

 

after what feels like forever since the last time, seonghwa breathes in a sharp intake of breath, and starts to cry. he turns away from hongjoong, hands placed on his hips as he lowers his head.

 

“i’m so tired,” he says, sniffing. “i just—i want to sleep. i just want to sleep, for a very long time.”

 

it was in that moment, that hongjoong’s laughter finally dies down, and the weight of seonghwa’s pain starts to feel real.

 

“i’m sorry,” he replies. was he? he had laughed, was he really sorry?

 

what does seonghwa mean? what does he mean by wanting to sleep? has hongjoong finally done it, drive someone else to the point of wanting to die? wouldn’t it be more tragic then, if seonghwa kills himself sooner than hongjoong?

 

“i’m sorry,” hongjoong repeats, teeth gritted at the thought that seonghwa had given up on him.

 

but he hasn’t, has he? saying that seonghwa had given up implies that the blame was to be shifted to himself, that none of it should be placed on hongjoong, because seonghwa was responsible, because it was his fault. it puts unrealistic expectations upon his shoulders.

 

that was wrong.  _ that was wrong— _

 

people don’t just  _ fix _ other people, and you don’t just blame them for being unable to because that was just  _ selfish _ and your mental health shouldn’t be up to other people to care for—

 

“it’s okay.”

 

seonghwa’s shoulders slump, and that was it. hongjoong tries to chase after him, when he moves to leave the room.

 

“don’t,” seonghwa says, voice cutting through the tense silence. “it’s okay.” he walks past the door, out and away from hongjoong’s miserable little circle of hell.

 

and hongjoong, he does what he does second best—hurt himself. he doesn’t want to, but he feels like he should. the crying, the laughing, the roller coaster of emotions he went through were now dimmed down to more mellow feelings, something like emptiness, as though seonghwa had taken a great part of him and left with it.

 

_ his heart, seonghwa-hyung has taken his heart, and maybe letting him get away with it was the least thing hongjoong could do. _

 

after everything, this was what he deserves.

 

they haven’t seen his new stash of compact cushions yet. no one really minds him when they all go out shopping and he finds himself lingering at the makeup kiosks. no one bats an eye at his purchases.  _ do they really not care? do they just never learn? _ but he was thankful.

 

he thinks about just getting razors, make his life easier, but they were too obvious.  _ they hurt too much.  _ he doesn’t like the pain—it scares him. he just wants to see the wounds bloom prettily on his skin. he doesn’t want to hurt, no matter how much his mind screams at him that it was what he deserves. instead, he wills himself to be content with just a swift drag of broken glass, mostly painless at first, before the pinch and the itch settles in, the blood rushing up to greet him.

 

it stops feeling good. he feels lonely now, sitting on his bed, shoebox full of unused makeup by his feet, his skin exposed to the air. it makes him angry, with seonghwa, with yunho, with everyone else. and then he gets angrier, because he brought this upon himself, because this was his fault from the beginning, and he set this all up, and lastly, just because he hates himself.

 

after everything, this was what really makes him want to claw his eyes out—the fact that he got so bad that he broke even  _ seonghwa, _ the person he trusted the most, the most patient person he knows, and the only one that never truly did him wrong.

 

it  _ hurts, _ the way seonghwa just left like that, but hongjoong knows it was what he deserves, to be left alone like this. it was the same thing all over again—he only realizes the damage he has done only after he hurt every single one of the boys. at the end of the day, it was him who never learned a thing. and who was he to put the blame on the others? how fucking dare he?

 

_ nothing was enough, _ and it drives him closer to desperation. he slits at his thighs in succession, left, right, left, right, then vertically, connecting all the wounds, and yet, it wasn’t enough. he needs more, more than he was strong enough to give.

 

_ he needs to get out of here. _

 

_ he doesn’t belong here anymore. _

 

_ outcast. _

 

_ disgrace. _

 

by being here, by staying, he only hurts the people around him, dragging them down to his level as they only try to help him up. and still, despite that, he finds the nerve to be mad at them, to blame them.

 

_ how fucking dare he— _

 

he needs to leave. he doesn’t belong here anymore. he doesn’t stop to think anymore.  _ was he being unfairly mean to himself, or was his anger justified? _ it doesn’t matter, none of that matters when he continues to hurt other people while asking himself the same questions over and over again. he never reaches a conclusion.  _ it doesn’t matter. _

 

_ just run. _

 

he feels a rush of—of  _ something, _ in his chest, beating wildly, angrily, plastered on the forefront part of his mind, pleading, begging,  _ ordering _ him to get out, to be anywhere but here. it pushes him up to his feet, pants pulled up hastily to his hips, and he books it.

 

stumbling over at the corner of their corridor, he bumps right onto an equally surprised wooyoung, who catches him and holds him up by the arms. wooyoung’s eyes were wide.

 

“hyung? why are you running?” he asks, but hongjoong just pushes at him, shoving him against the wall, using his surprise to pull away and run.

 

but  _ seonghwa _ was standing by the front door, blocking it with his entire body as he was bent over, reorganizing their shoe rack. hongjoong slips on his feet as he attempts to make a sharp turn, but gets back up immediately, adrenaline pumping wildly in his veins, and he runs to the kitchen instead, where the back door was.

 

no one was there. the tiles were cold as his bare feet touches them, but he was out the door in no time, hand curling around the doorknob and turning it, using his whole body to push it open.

 

he hears yelling behind him, but he doesn’t look back. he shouldn’t. his vision blurs. he couldn’t, not now, not this time. 

 

hongjoong shakes his head. he keeps running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gHusT0 kOh n4 m4MatAy
> 
> anyway i made a [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/lazlozuli) for the fuck of it and if anyone has the time pls send me “putanginamo mamatay ka na gago” it would mean a lot to me <3333
> 
> my twt is [@lazlozuli](https://twitter.com/lazlozuli) if yall prefer to dm it to me instead ily thanks so muchhh <33


	12. Chapter 12

seonghwa stands at the front door, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the boys stumble as they hurriedly pull on their coats and their shoes. they even argue a little bit. san hits wooyoung on the back of his head for stealing his shoes. wooyoung complains about yunho accidentally kicking his left boot away from his hands.

 

“hurry,” seonghwa orders, somehow managing to sound more stern than impatient despite the restless drumming against his ribcage. he feels wide awake too, for someone who only had twenty minutes of shut eye. the boys don’t look too good either. their clumsiness must root from exhaustion.

 

they board the car. seonghwa gets in last, squeezing himself between mingi’s broadness and the car door.

 

restless. they don’t know what to expect. they have been told that his body has been found. _possibly,_ their manager reminds. nothing was for sure. it could be someone else for all they know.

 

“how could it be someone else? we gave them a clear picture,” wooyoung had argued, visibly annoyed, not even bothering to be respectful anymore. the bags under his eyes were prominent, darker. “if this turns out to be someone else, i’m throwing hands.”

 

usually, seonghwa would try to calm him down, but with how things were going, he felt the exact same way.

 

water.

 

the calming splash of water against slippery rock, a tide of fear washing over them. anticipation. hope. denial.

 

“please take a look,” the officer says, gesturing to the body bag by his feet.

 

they look at each other. everyone wants to know, but no one has the courage to step forward. but someone has to do it. seonghwa lets out a shaky breath and inches towards the body bag.

 

it looks as though it was thrown haphazardly on the ground, and it flares anger in seonghwa’s chest, briefly, very briefly, before he calms himself down because for all they know, this person could not turn out to be who they spent a whole month looking for.

 

he reaches out a hand, unzipping the bag. distantly, he hears crying, but he doesn’t look up. they wouldn’t see, even if he opened the zipper all the way. it faced him, not them. so, without preamble, his nerves gathered with a single breath, he unzips it until the zipper catches on the side.

 

and then, seonghwa stares. he takes it in, the white-pale skin of the person before him, the angry violet and blue veins, the wide eyes that stare back at him. he exhales, and lowers his head, closing his eyes.

 

“well?” wooyoung yells, ever so impatient. but this time, he was also scared. “is it him?”

 

they could easily walk over here and look, but they don’t. they don’t have the courage to. they don’t know if they could stomach the truth. they don’t know if they could handle it.

 

seonghwa wipes at the corners of his eyes, futilely, with how the tears continue to pour. he smiles shakily, chuckling, before they turn into breathy laughter. he looks up and sees the boys’ shoulders sag in mild relief, but he still sees some tension there.

 

“well?” wooyoung repeats, weaker this time, afraid. his own face was pale. he presses himself close to san, their arms linked together, hands clasped.

 

“it’s not him,” seonghwa croaks, throat constricting. it feels painful. he looks back down, catches the dead person’s gaze and smiles down at them. they were pale all over, veins protruding around the cheeks, hair askew, stomach pumped excruciatingly full of water, skin glossy and delicate with moisture, eyes wide with what looks like fear. they were probably scared, drowning like that, inhaling water because it was the only thing that surrounded them, trapped them. but it doesn’t matter now, because they were finally at peace, finally catching up on the rest they so desperately need. finally, right here, in this sad body bag, they lie forever, dead and gone, finally worry-free, and seonghwa thinks, it couldn’t possibly be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. It’s Larisa. I’m gonna make this quick. First off, I’m sorry, because it has to end this way, but I do distinctly remember saying that the ending depends on my mood, and well, this happened. There’s lots of plot holes here and there, probably, but fuck it, this is just my lame lil fanfic that I wrote because I don’t have a friend to talk to, and I desperately needed to vent. When I published this, I didn’t think it’d get that much attention, and yeah I was just writing for myself. When it did get attention, I started feeling better, hence the slower updates because I could not, for the life of me, write a chapter when I am not sad.
> 
> Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m just thankful because people took the time to read and leave comments. For a split second, if I squint, it feels as though I have friends. I feel less alone with my emotions seeing as there are more people out there that share it too. But things like these aren’t easily fixed, which I’m sure you guys, who relate, understand. Hence the ending.
> 
> Still, thank you for being here, thank you for giving me a chance and listening. It didn’t automatically make things better, but hey, it was fun. I feel validated.
> 
> It’s like this quote from They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera (taken completely out of context but I resonate with it a lot):
> 
> “I think we made his day by not pretending he’s invisible. Thanks for seeing him with me.”
> 
> So thanks, again. I’m sappy, and this is long because like I said, I literally have no friends and no one to talk to and I’m super shy and weird and dumb. So uh. Thanks for seeing me.
> 
> Have a good life.
> 
> If you hated the ending I have a [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/lazlozuli) and a [twitter](https://twitter.com/lazlozuli) where you can direct all your complaints to haha.
> 
> Also!!! Since this is a series now, please don’t expect that I’m going to write something that picks up after this. We are not going there lmao.


End file.
